In A Flap
by Lampito
Summary: A lot of religions include prayers to petition the deity of choice to assist the dear departed to attain Eternal Contentment. It makes the people praying for them feel better, but there's just one small glitch: has anybody ever checked with the dear departed to ask if they actually want that assistance? Now, FINALLY: with Special Bonus Feature: Deleted Scene! COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

All right, which one of you utter, utter _bastards_ sent another frigging plot bunny? ? ? ! ! ! Just when I think I might get a weeny leetle respite from the damned things, this one jumped out of a failed experiment. (A very large company sent me some dud reagent; I are NOT happy pineapple). It wasn't in the experiment when I started it; it jumped out when it had finished. I can only conclude that somebody stuffed the damned thing into the spectrophotometer when I wasn't looking. STOP IT! STOP IT! THAT'S AN EXPENSIVE INSTRUMENT! If the tray carriage gets gunked up with plot bunny fur, I will have much explaining to do... Anyway, it would not SHUT UP until I wrote this down. It doesn't have anything resembling a plot yet, but we'll see if it comes up with anything.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, or I'd chain them up in a cage and charge admission (and the depraved Denizens of the Jimiverse would pay to look at them...) You could pay extra to pat them.

**Working Title:** In A Flap

**Rating:** I'll make it T, because Dean Winchester is bound to open his mouth at some point.

**Summary:** A lot of religions include prayers to petition the deity of choice to assist the dear departed to attain Eternal Contentment. It makes the people praying for them feel better, but there's just one small glitch: has anybody ever checked with the dear departed to ask if they actually _want _that assistance?

**Blame:** This protp-story is **entirely the fault** of whoever shoved that bunny into the plate reader. It could be anybody. It could be Leahelisabeth: Sam-In-A-Box, Bunny-In-A-Spectrophotomete - coincidence? You decide...

* * *

**Chapter One**

She made her way through the fading light, darkness coming early at the coldest time of the year. A hint of snow hung in the clinging, grey chill; she pulled her shawl tighter around her thin shoulders, and stepped into the church.

Her feet carried her into the sooty gloom, where she genuflected a little awkwardly because of her expanding belly. She determinedly ignored the glares of opprobrium she received. Oh, she knew what they called her: fallen woman (if they were feeling polite), whore or slut or strumpet (if they were not). She glanced to the stained glass window, the image barely visible in the dim of approaching evening, of Jesus standing over the woman who had been accused of adultery.

_Qui sine peccato est vestrum primus in illam lapidem mittat_

Whoever among you is without sin, let him be first to cast a stone at her.

It worked both ways, of course, she reminded herself sternly, she was herself a sinner, and would practise contrition and charity by avoiding thinking unkind thoughts about her detractors. She set herself to her task: carefully removing the small candle from her apron, she headed to the transept, lit it, and knelt to pray. For her child, for her family, and of course, for him.

He had promised her the world. She had fallen madly in love with him, and he with her, or so she thought. He spoke of devotion, and love, and forever, so that when he acted in love, she had given him her virtue freely and without condition. He had left to tell his parents the good news, he had told her, and to fetch a modest ring for her to wear. But that had been months ago. She worried at first that he had met with foul play, a common enough occurrence, but the Widow Douglas, who had eyes and ears everywhere and made it her business to know everybody's business in the whole town and the several others nearest, swore that he'd been spotted not a week later, attending a most attractive lass with red hair and an adoring gaze...

The details weren't important. She was to be an unwed mother. All children are from God, she repeated to herself, she had learned that early and believed it fervently, all children are from God, and if God didn't want her to have a child, then this would never have happened.

When her condition had become obvious, her mam had cried and cried and called her a lovesick fool, her da had beaten her and called her much worse, his temper made hotter by the drink, and he had thrown her out to spread her legs in the gutter, so he yelled after her, but she refused to despair. She had found employment with a sympathetic seamstress – she had a fine, delicate hand with embroidery and smocking, and wasn't that piece of extraordinary luck proof that God had not abandoned her, even if her family had? She had a roof over her head, and a means to keep herself, more than most girls who found themselves in her situation had.

She would not despair. She thanked God for His mercy, for sending her good fortune, and for her child.

And she prayed for... him.

He was a careless young man, she told the Almighty, a careless young man who was as immature and impulsive and reckless as young men were, because weren't young men just big babies until they found the right woman to look after them? She commended him unto their Maker, and asked His help and consideration for her beloved, to bring him back to virtue and goodness, and she was confident that God would hear her petition, because if she could forgive him, surely their Redeemer would...

The child was born in Spring, a healthy, bonny girl, with dark eyes and dark hair. She grew up knowing her circumstances, but thanks to her mother, without bitterness or anger; when she thought of her father, her thoughts were of gratitude, for if he hadn't known her mother, she wouldn't even exist, and what more precious gift could he have given her but life? They prayed for her father every Sunday, and the child often prayed quietly, privately, for the man she'd never met, yet somehow felt she loved.

Growing into a talented needleworker like her mother, she grew up illiterate but diligent, modest and devout, and even the owner of the dingy workshop where she sat by her mother for long hours could not hold a grudge when she caught the eye of his son. She was a devoted wife and a loving mother, who raised gentle daughters and well-mannered sons, and she taught her children to pray for Granda McLeod, so that they grew up loving him gratefully as she had done. By the survival statistics of the day, she felt herself blessed: all but two of them survived to adulthood, and even when they had families of their own, every Sunday as the priest called on them to pray for all the dear departed, they kept a small special place in their devotions for the ancestor who probably never even knew or cared that he had left a family behind, and as his descendants left to start lives of their own, his name was always inscribed carefully in the family Bibles.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Cause and effect, action and reaction, act and consequence – even the most devout and simple devotee of any deity has to acknowledge at some point that prayers don't work like that. And it's probably just as well.

If it did, one the one hand the world would have no hunger, no poverty, no war, no pollution, no obesity, no disease, no dubstep, no mosquitoes, and plenty of beer geysers and doughnut trees across all continents. On the other hand, there would also presumably be no Jewish people, no Muslim people, no Christian people, no Hindu people, no Sikh people, and definitely no followers of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, no black people, no white people, no yellow people, no gay people, no atheists, no Republicans, no Democrats, no Tories, no Whigs, no fans of heavy metal, and an enormous drop in the diversity of insects and therefore other animals that prey on them because mosquitoes were a major and important link in the food chain. So, it would be happier, but a lot quieter, because there would only be a couple of dozen people left who by twist of happenstance didn't belong to at least one group the obliteration of which had been prayed for by another group. But at least they won't be bothered by mosquitoes.

A sociologist studying the matter might suggest that, as funeral rituals benefit of the living at least as much as the dead, so praying may confer benefit on the pray-er as least as much as the pray-ee. A thoughtful believer might believe that their god is just behaving like a responsible parent in not giving the selfish children every damned thing they ask for, leaving them to work it out for themselves like the adults they are supposed to be. And yet, the ritual of praying for the Redemption of the dead persists in many faiths. Maybe it's because it makes so many of the living feel better to think that they may be helping a loved one, or maybe just another fellow traveller in a particular faith, onwards to Eternal Contentment.

There is, of course, no way to tell whether the dead receive any benefit from this entreaty on their behalf.

The coda to that is that there's no way to tell whether the dead actually want this entreaty on their behalf.

A man in a natty hat once observed that words have power. Another man who lived about 1900 years earlier (history does not record whether he had a hat of any sort) noted that the mills of the gods grind slowly, but they grind exceeding fine. Many people have interpreted that to mean that a god's attention to divine justice is slow, but inevitable. Some less philosophical and more cynical people have suggested that it describes perfectly the administrative processes at play in their workplace: every single word, every piece of information and data, no matter how apparently small or worthless or obscure it may be, is sucked into the groaning, ponderous vortex of administrivia, to be stamped and filed and forwarded and archived and in many cases never heard of ever again. Well, not in their lifetime, anyway.

It rarely occurs to anyone that it might be describing both things at once.

It didn't occur to Crowley in exactly those terms, as he drooped visibly whilst perusing the stack of files on his large mahogany desk, although he was pondering on the peculiar nature of information: the way it had a tendency to accumulate, and once it had accumulated, it underwent some sort of transmogrification so that the final amount of paperwork that had to be dealt with was greater than the sum of its parts. It was as if there was some cosmic bank, paying out compound interest on administrative embuggerance: the more you tried to deal with, the more there was to deal with. It wasn't just because he was in Hell; it was the Universal Administrative Experience. Which had led to his latest Infernal innovation.

He was used to labouring fruitlessly, without reward or appreciation, to drag Hell out of the Time Before Time and into the 21st century, but he was starting to think that trying to shift all of Hell's Archive to electronic format might've been just a step too evil, even for him. He was starting to think that perhaps he understood how Viktor Frankenstein might've felt, or the campaign group pushing Sarah Palin's candidature, or Simon Cowell constructing One Direction: that horrible moment of realising that a monster had been created, and it's escaping control.

He reminded himself that it was his job to promote torment and suffering, and an ever-increasing administrative workload, replete with new software, was an important tool in his arsenal, so he squared his shoulders, and turned his attention back to the monitor as Orgle, his indispensable Fiend Friday, tapped rapidly at the computer keyboard.

"This is great, Mr Crowley!" enthused Orgle, "This will revolutionise our document management! We can say goodbye to all those dusty old files! It will speed things up!"

Crowley smiled to himself – the Hierarchy, Hell's senior demonic nobility, was screaming blue murder about everything going electronic, but anybody under 300 years old was taking to the system like a Hellhound to a damned soul. "I think you'll find, Orgle, that this will not speed us up at all – that's not the point of the new system."

"DAMNATION," commented Orgle.

"Well, that's what Hell is all about," Crowley clapped the fiend on one of his massive shoulders, "It's supposed to be a place of exasperation and frustration and eternal unhappiness..."

"No, no, not damnation, DAMNATION," clarified Orgle. "D.A.M.N.A.T.I.O.N. Diabolical Archival Management, Notation And Technical Infernal Office Network. The system is called DAMNATION. Or we call it Dannie, for short."

"We? We?" queried Crowley, "Who's 'we'?"

"IDIOT", replied Orgle.

"Now, just a minute, there," bristled Crowley, "I am King of Hell, and your boss, and whilst you are a talented individual, there is no need for name calling..."

"In-house DAMNATION Installers, Operators & Technicians," Orgle said, "We're the group who go around setting it up for everybody so they can just plug and play."

"A good idea," nodded Crowley, "You are most definitely one of Hell's up and coming... individuals." He frowned at the screen. "Er, I thought this was all a networked system? I thought the whole point was that you don't have to plug in any extra hardware..."

"Hardware, no," Orgle explained by holding up a plug by way of demonstration.

Crowley felt his eyes and his legs crossing involuntarily. "Oh. Oh. _That_ sort of plug. Goodness me."

"This is Hell, after all," shrugged Orgle. "You don't need one because you're staff, of course."

"Well, that's a relief," Crowley relaxed slightly, "Because otherwise I was going to need a bigger cushion..."

"Although the imps from the Pit of Lewd Lechers report that there's been a user uptake of more than seventy percent, and some account holders are already calling for bigger ram," Orgle reported.

"Aha, I know that one!" beamed Crowley triumphantly, "RAM, that's Random Access Memory, the data storage where the operating system is installed..."

"Er, no, boss," Orgle interrupted a little sheepishly, "Just... bigger ram."

"Oh. _Oh._ Um... yes, well," stuttered Crowley. "Well, um, we should, you know, act to stop them enjoying it. They're not supposed to enjoy it."

"Kyoo in R&D did come up with some that could be electrified," Orgle informed him.

"Aha! That's more like it! Have they been tested in the field?"

"There was a riot when they were given out, and there weren't enough for everybody," said Orgle regretfully. "Kyoo got a couple of his arms broken."

"Oh. Oh. Er." Crowley's gaze fell on the teetering pile of bound paper on his desk. "So, we can get rid of all this then," he chortled.

"Oh, no," smiled Orgle, "That's the user manual. I printed out a copy for you, because I know you don't like to read on the screen."

"The... user manual?" gulped Crowley.

"Just the quick-start version, to get you up and running right away!" Orgle beamed again. "So, you're good to go, Mr Crowley. I've left you a little sticker with the number of the Help Desk; if you get stuck and I'm not here, just call that to talk to an IDIOT..."

"I shall bear that in mind, Orgle," Crowley smiled weakly, "But right now I feel a liverache coming on, caused by lack of alcohol, so I shall be in my office, ignoring anybody who wants to talk to me and dreaming up amusing ways to disembowel those who piss me off."

He left Orgle cheerfully doing... well, he actually had no idea what Orgle was doing, but it meant that there was a hard-working fiend between him and anyone who came barging in to see him (because they never used the email system to book meetings, even though it was now a standing order), so he made his way into his inner office, poured himself a stiff drink, then sank into a comfortable chair. Gedda the Hellpoodle wagged her tail, and jumped into his lap, eyes whirling a happy glowing red.

"Hello, my darling," he crooned to the infernal teacup poodle, "I'm afraid that Daddy's had a very long day, and he's tired. Why don't you let him rest and have a drink, and then maybe we'll go walkies and have a nice game of Tear Pieces Off The Damned Soul, what do you think?" The dog whuffed in agreement, content to do whatever her dog-daddy did, and curled up on his lap.

He sighed and sipped his drink. He hadn't been kidding, he really did have a liverache. Or maybe it was a kidneyache – it was in his back. No, it was too far up for a kidneyache. Liverache after all. No, it was higher still, and on both sides of his spine. Was it possible to have scapula-ache?

A sudden pain shot through his shoulder blades, making him gasp and drop his drink. Another blast of pain sent him off the chair and to his knees on the expensive carpet. Gedda leaped from his lap, and crouched, growling at him, whilst he gasped for breath, which was really strange, since he didn't actually have to breathe...

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The noises that Orgle heard coming from Mr Crowley alerted him that something was not right. Granted, those noises sometimes came from Mr Crowley's office when Mr Crowley was engaging somebody in the Performance Feedback Assessment & Development Scheme, usually giving feedback by pulling their lungs out through their noses or something, but the point was, it usually wasn't Mr Crowley making the noises. Well, except for small exclamations of disgust when he got blood on another tie, maybe.

Orgle knocked on the door to the inner office. "Is everything all right, Mr Crowley?" he called tentatively. He heard another strangled yelp, and decided to take matters into his own claws.

Pushing the door inwards, all his mouths fell open as he took in the sight before him.

Crowley sat in the middle of the rug, wearing the expression of utterly shell-shocked bewilderment more usually seen on tone-deaf and talentless talent quest contestants who have just been told that a basket of mutant two-tongued cats from Fukushima having their tails pulled would sound more musical. And within a second or so, Orgle was wearing that expression too.

Because scattered around Crowley was a pile of pale silver-grey feathers.

And sprouting from his back was a pair of large, fully fledged wings.

A pale, glowing halo sat atop his head; in his lap, Gedda the Hellpoodle was chewing on a small harp.

"Um, Mr Crowley," began Orgle uncertainly, wringing some of his claws together in uncertainly, "Um, when did you start turning into an angel?"

* * *

I blame the people who wanted a wingfic a la Lampito. Like I said, no real plot yet, but let's see where the bunny goes. (If that's 'back into the plate reader', I will use a pair of needle-nose pliers to pull it out and damn the injection ports.) Feed it reviews! (Not test tubes.)


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you for your encouragement - it seems to be working on the bunny...

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Orgle was a simple fiend, and in terms of the inhabitants of the Pit, quite junior – he'd only recently celebrated his 280th Topside birthday. In the caste system of Hell, fiends might only have been a notch or two above the imps, but he never let that bother him. He was respectful towards those above him, kind to the imps, and did his job diligently, whatever it might be. Like a happy dog that knows its position in a stable pack structure, Orgle knew his place in The Scheme Of Things, and was content. And most of all, he had great faith in Mr Crowley's capacity to run things.

Even if Creation itself was under threat, Crowley would look cool, calm, and collected, and give the impression that he knew everything that was going on, in fact he had a hand in what was going on, and he knew what you were doing, he knew what you were thinking, in fact he knew what you were doing and thinking before you did it or thought it, so you'd better just mind your Ps and Qs if you didn't want to find yourself spending a couple of decades in charge of cleaning out his Hellpoodle's litter tray, or proof-reading OH&S documentation.

"The trick", his boss had explained once, "Is to make people think that you know everything, whether you do or not. If they get angry, you get angrier. You can fool some of the people all of the time, Orgle, and you jerk the rest off." Orgle had looked down dubiously at his own enormous claws at that point, and had his doubts, given the fragility of the human hosts demons liked to take, but Crowley had forestalled his musings. "It's like being a swan: the bit you can see looks completely in control, impressive, majestic, slightly imposing even – but you never let anybody see all the desperate thrashing about that's going on underneath to keep the whole gig afloat and looking that authoritative."

Orgle had never seen a swan, so he'd done some research and arranged an expedition Topside, taking some imps on an excursion to feed some swans. They did indeed look calm and unflappable, and when one of them chased him up the river bank pecking at his nether regions he decided that they could indeed be imposing, although he'd never actually seen Crowley try to bite somebody on the ass for annoying him (of course, what went on during Performance Feedback And Development Scheme reviews was private). He decided that Mr Crowley did indeed remind him of a swan.

No so much right at that moment, though. More like a very confused and half-plucked duck. The sight of the King Of Hell with a bloody great pair of wings twitching behind him in an uncoordinated fashion left Orgle feeling just as perplexed as his boss looked.

"You seem to have grown wings, Mr Crowley," Orgle observed. "And a halo. And a harp."

"Meeeeeep," went Crowley.

"Oh dear," muttered Orgle. The Crowley he knew should have said something like 'Well, of course, do you like it? After last year's Halloween party, when I offended so many people by turning up as a salt shaker, I thought I'd try something even more tasteless. What do you think?'. "When did this happen, Mr Crowley?"

"Meeeeeep," went Crowley.

Orgle studied the harp in Crowley's lap. Gedda was nibbling at it, but there were only a few teeth marks in the varnish. "I think this might have happened just now, Mr Crowley," he suggested.

"Meeeeeep," went Crowley.

"Can you stand up, Mr Crowley?" he asked, carefully extending one massive multi-jointed arm. In a daze, his boss took hold of the claws, and Orgle pulled him gently to his feet. The wings twitched and flapped sporadically behind him.

"Um," said the fiend. "Has this ever happened before, Mr Crowley?"

"Meeeeeep," went Crowley.

"I'll take that as a no, then," Orgle nodded to himself. "I think you might be unwell, Mr Crowley. I think you might have picked up a nasty dose of angel somewhere – I do hope it isn't catching..."

"Meeeeeep!" went Crowley.

"I think we need to have you properly diagnosed," Orgle felt better for having made a decision. "Perhaps we should ask Senior Librarian Verael. She is very knowledgeable..."

"No!" squeaked Crowley, finally managing an actual word, "No! Absolutely not! I can't let anybody see me like this!"

"She will probably know if anything like this has ever happened before," Orgle pointed out reasonably.

"I'm not going out in public like this," asserted Crowley desperately, his plumage rustling in agitation. "They'll..." his voice trailed off. "They'll laugh at me," he finished lamely. "Ow!" he added as the pinions of one wing flopped around and hit him on the ear. "I think I just... smote myself..."

"DAMNATION!" exclaimed Orgle.

"I was going to say 'Jesus suffering fuck', but that'll do," moaned Crowley.

"No, Mr Crowley, DAMNATION! Dannie! The Archives!" Orgle sat at the computer. "We can search the Archives online, from here, to see if this has ever happened before Down Here."

"Huzzah for Dannie," Crowley announced with a little laugh that teetered on hysteria, "You can do research on your embarrassing medical conditions, all from the privacy of your own office. Better than Doctor Google." He poured himself a drink, glared at the glass, then necked the bottle. "Gah!" he winced, then inspected the cork. "Gedda, you haven't been peeing in Daddy's booze, have you? This one is on the turn."

A few minutes later, Orgle announced that his search had been fruitless. "There's nothing," he reported sadly, "There's no report at all about any demons ever having sprouted wings, or, you know," he waved a paw vaguely at Crowley's head, "That."

"This is terrible, Orgle," Crowley muttered, gazing in horror at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, "It must be a curse - somebody's put a curse on me. On me! The sheer cheek of it! Who would dare to put a curse on the King Of Hell?"

"Well, there was Duke Ganthery," Orgle reminded him helpfully, "When he cursed you to waltz everywhere. And there was Castiel, who cursed you to be the scales at an obesity clinic after you cursed him to be a seagull. And there was Sam Winchester, who cursed you to go bald – you really shouldn't make fun of his hair, you know. And of course, Mr Singer cursed you to speak nothing but Swahili, after you annoyed him again..."

"_Asante sana_, Orgle, my own walking talking version of DAMNATION," muttered Crowley, prodding gloomily at the halo hovering above his head. "Well, when I find out who it was, I'm going to present them with this harp in a way that makes them walk funny for a fortnight. Okay, so, first, identify the curse, second, identify the curser, then third, grease up the harp. Back to the Archives, you IDIOT, and search for 'wings' and 'curses'."

Orgle spent some time at the computer while Crowley found out, to his horror, that two more of his bottles of Scotch had apparently deteriorated badly and tasted awful. "That right there is a tragedy," he sighed sadly, gazing at the bottles that had gone from nectar of the gods to tasting like gym socks of the demons, "If I find that somebody has cursed my drinks cabinet, I swear I will dismember them using nothing but a bottle opener and a humourously shaped bottle stopper."

"Nothing again, Mr Crowley," announced Orgle regretfully, "I searched a couple of other databases too, JIHAD and HOLIER, and there's nothing to suggest that it's a curse."

"Well that's not much use... other databases?" Crowley asked, curious in spite of himself.

"Oh, yes," enthused Orgle, "Jahannam Infernal Holdings And Database – our Muslim counterparts have been online for some time now, and we have read-only access to each other's archives."

"We do?" Crowley blinked.

"Yes," Orgle confirmed. "I did explain it to you," he went on, with a hint of reproach, "When I showed you the documentation. The Memorandum of Understanding. I wrote the Executive Summary, before you signed it..."

"Well, that's good, that's good," Crowley recovered, "Sharing Infernal resources, it makes sense. The enemy of my enemy, and all that." He paused. "Er, what information do we swap with them?" he asked.

"Mostly recipes," Orgle answered. "Their pastries are very popular. And they love our sausages. Especially the pork and sage ones. Oh, and there are some really funny pictures, lots of them are of imps with really funny expressions, and people put funny captions on them, like 'I Can Has Pancreasburger?' or 'Invisible Thumbscrews'."

"It figures," sighed Crowley, "We install the most powerful data storage system that the Underworld has ever seen, and IDIOTs everywhere use it to swap recipes and reinvent memes." He frowned. "What about HOLIER?" he asked.

It shouldn't have been possible for a fiend who stood ten feet tall, made a Kodiak bear look puny and was covered in a think, shaggy pelt to blush, but somehow, Orgle managed it. "Um, we're not supposed to talk about it," he answered, wringing two of his paws together. "Heavenly Online Library Internet Electronic Resource. It's not, um, official."

Crowley stared at him. "Do you mean to tell me," he breathed, "That we have access to the database... Upstairs?"

"Kind of," Orgle admitted reluctantly. "We've had informal contact with the HERALDs for a while, now..."

"Who?" interrupted Crowley.

"Oh, the Helpers Elucidating, Running And Loading Databases," Orgle explained. "They're like our IDIOTs. And, um, well..."

"Yes?" prompted Crowley, in the tone of voice usually employed by a mother who is encouraging her small child to explain exactly how the contents of the poster paint pots ended up spread from one end of the newly re-carpeted hallway to the other.

"Well, it was kind of a, you know, a game," several of Orgle's mouths grinned, "They challenged us to get through their irewall..."

"You mean the firewall on their system?" Crowley wanted to know.

"No," Orgle elaborated, "They hava an irewall – if St Peter catches anybody messing with the system, he gets very angry."

"I can't imagine why," grunted Crowley. "Anyway, they're no use, if they don't have any information on what's happened. Damn, it's just so much simpler if you can find the right person and just ask them..."

"That's a great idea, Mr Crowley!" declared Orgle.

Before Crowley could say anything more, the fiend carefully put a paw on his shoulder, and they disappeared.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Absolve me, Pater omnipotente, quia peccavi," muttered Bobby under his breath, as he calmly washed the dishes. _Forgive me, Almighty Father, for I have sinned._

Another crash sounded from upstairs.

_No, really,_ he thought, _I must've sinned terribly. In a previous life, maybe. I don't know exactly what I did, but I'm sorry. I'm really and truly contrite._

The crash was followed by raised voices.

_Yup, it was bad all right, _he mused, _Ol' sinner me. Maybe I was a callous murderer. Maybe I was a con artist who swindled and impoverished thousands of decent, hard-working folks. Maybe I spread ignorant hatred and blatant lies and fostered prejudice against ordinary people just because they didn't look or think just like me._

The raised voices were followed by scuffling, and a yelp.

_Maybe I kicked puppies. Maybe I talked in the theatre._

More scuffling, more yelling.

_Maybe I left the seat up. Maybe I habitually mispronounced the word 'nuclear'..._

Muffled thumping, and some shouting.

_Merciful Father in Heaven, or wherever else You happen to be at the moment in Your wisdom, whatever I did to be punished by being plagued by idjitry, I'm sure I deserved it._

A rather unmanly shriek, some barking, and the sound of something large going 'splash'.

_But surely I've been punished enough now, so I do humbly and sincerely beg for Your forgiveness, and beseech You to deal with those two idjits before I smite them myself..._

Unfortunately, the Almighty was not listening to Bobby's heartfelt prayer. Or at least, He didn't act on it.

As Bobby picked up a dishcloth, the two idjits in question came charging into the kitchen, followed by Jimi the half-Hellhound Rottweiler. Sam was dressed, Dean was wearing only his shorts. All three of them were soaking wet, and trailing soap suds. Jimi smiled a big doggy smile, clearly enjoying the argument as a wonderful game. His wagging tail splattered more water behind him, and he woofed general encouragement to both participants.

"Bobby! Bobby!" Sam's rage lent a shrillness to his voice, "Dean's being a complete jerk!"

"Am not!" Dean spluttered angrily, his voice rising several tones, "But Francis here is being a total bitch!"

"Hmmmm, I must've missed that memo," nodded Bobby thoughtfully, "The one that said, 'Yea and verily The Next Apocalypse is at hand, and the messenger angel did appear, and spake thusly, woe unto you, Robert Singer, cursèd art thou amongst men, for The Final Conflict shall begin in thy upstairs bathroom, and there shall be weeping and wailing and splashing of bubbles'..."

"He used up all my shampoo washing the dog!" spat Sam, brandishing a bottle like it was a weapon, "All of it! I only bought it a few days ago!"

"He snatched the shampoo away while I was washing Jimi!" complained Dean in outrage.

"You've got a bottle of dog shampoo!" Sam pointed out.

"There wasn't enough," Dean countered. "Besides, your stuff smells nicer."

"It's mine, and I wanted it back!" Sam asserted.

"You like the dog shampoo so much, use that!" suggested Dean.

"He pulled me into the bath!" snapped Sam.

"He wouldn't let go!" Dean shot back, "And he sat on me!"

"I landed on you!" Sam retorted hotly, "I wasn't my fault!"

"Well, whose fault was it, then?" Dean sneered, "Some demon currently possessing your Sasquatch ass, huh? So you have no responsibility for what your body does?"

"I only LANDED on you because you PULLED ME IN!" Sam shouted back.

"_**SHADDAAAAAP!**_" demanded Bobby. Both Winchesters fell silent, glaring at each other. "Are you tellin' me that you ladies are swingin' your purses at each other over a bottle of shampoo?"

"It's mine," Sam muttered sullenly.

"I needed it," hissed Dean.

"God's tits, but there are days when I want to bang your heads together," grumbled Bobby. "Of all the things that have tried to kill you before now, and you're going to end each other over a bottle of _shampoo_?" They had the grace to look chastened. "You pair of idjits got energy to burn, I got plenty of stuff in the yard needs sorting and moving, although I might run afoul of child labour laws, since you two are behaving like six year olds."

"Sorry, Bobby," the Winchesters chorused.

"So, either go outside, say yes to your respective angels and get the Next Apocalypse over and done with before lunch," Bobby instructed sternly, "Or get yourselves rinsed off, and clean up this mess before somebody goes A over T and then starts wailin' up a storm because they got a boo-boo."

The Winchesters did as they were bid, albeit with a certain amount of bickering and recrimination. They'd been staying at Bobby's whilst they recovered from tangling with a particularly vicious angry ghost, but now they were ready to hit the road again, they were getting antsy. Idjits, Bobby sighed to himself, he was beset by idjits. It was his fate to spend his life wading through a lake of idjitry.

They were just sitting down to sandwiches and coffee for lunch, Sam tapping at his laptop as he searched for their next job, when there was a knock on the door.

"Balls," Bobby griped, "It's probably those damned Mormons again."

"Tell them we're atheists, and we think they're deluding themselves," suggested Sam.

"Tell them we're traditional Catholics, and we think they're heretics who should be set on fire," suggested Dean.

When he opened the door, he was greeted by Orgle, who gave him a smile and a little wave.

"Good afternoon Mr Singer," the fiend began politely, "I do hope that we're not interrupting anything, but..."

Bobby was staring at Crowley. The King Of Hell gave him the most mournful look he'd seen since he'd had to tell Dean two days ago that there was no bacon for breakfast.

"Hello, Bobby," he said weakly, the large wings fluttering awkwardly behind him. "I hope we're not interrupting, darling, but I seem to have a little problem..."

"Oh, balls," sighed Bobby, thinking that it was funny how the lake of idjitry only ever got deeper. It was more of a sea, tending towards ocean.

_Dear God, if You won't stop afflicting me with idjitry, at least You could send me a life jacket..._

* * *

All right, all right, when I said you could pat them, I meant just that, pat them. You can stroke their hair, or maybe an arm. Don't frighten them – if you do it gently, you can get the short one to purr. And definitely NO grabbing their, you know, nether regions. I won't be able to charge stud fees for damaged merchandise.

Reviews are the Dripping Wet Winchester Of Your Choice Leaving Puddles On The Linoleum Floor Of Life!


	3. Chapter 3

Well done to TheBlueOrleans, who spotted the self-insertion; my husband and I do that with Morons and Seventh Day Dentists who come to our door. Oh, and thanks to TBO, I am now coveting a digital press, or at the very least a high speed document processor. Heeeeey, Macarena!

* * *

**Chapter Three**

"What's wrong, Mr Singer?" asked Orgle worriedly, his gaze on Sam. "His face is very red. He hasn't caught angel from Mr Crowley, has he?"

"It's okay, Orgle, just sit him up like this," Bobby demonstrated with Dean, "Get him up straight, so he can breathe."

"Orgle delicately pulled Sam into a more upright position, attempting to emulate Bobby, but Sam just tipped over the other way and back to the floor, his feet kicking.

"He's not well, Mr Singer!" yelped the fiend anxiously, pulling Sam upright again. "He's making a terrible noise! Like his brother! They're in terrible pain, Mr Singer! Oh, what's the matter Mr Winchester?" he patted Sam carefully on the back. "How can we help?"

"Just keep doin' what you're doin', Orgle," sighed Bobby, sitting Dean up straight. "We just gotta let 'em get it out of their systems. Come on, idjit," he slapped Dean between the shoulder blades, "Less brayin' and more breathin'."

"He, he, he," gasped Dean, tears of laughter leaking from his eyes as he waved a hand at Crowley, "He, he, hee hee hee hee hee!"

"Well, as much as I get such a warm fuzzy feeling from providing Tweedledum and Tweedledumber here with so much amusement," griped Crowley, "I was hoping to ask you about my little problem, Bobby."

"As if I haven't already got my quota of chuckleheads for the week," Bobby grumbled, "So, Crowley..."

"Crow, Crow, Crow, CROWLIEL!" wheezed Sam, sending both himself and Dean off into fresh gales of hilarity, as Orgle wrung his paws in concern and Bobby rolled his eyes.

"Right now, I'm tempted to try to play this thing," muttered Crowley petulantly as he waggled the harp, "Just to see if I can get them to actually laugh themselves to death. I'd settle for some broken ribs and maybe a lacerated spleen, or something."

Eventually the Winchesters managed to stop laughing, so Bobby could ask for details of Crowley's delicate condition.

"Well, as I would've told you, if I hadn't been so rudely interrupted," his Infernal Bewinged Majesty glared at the brothers as he spoke, "I was just sitting in my office, contemplating taking Gedda walkies, when... they happened." He gestured irritably at the wings. As if in response to his annoyance, the tip of one flapped around awkwardly and whacked him on the ear. "OW! And I keep smiting myself!"

"You dirty bastard," sniggered Dean.

"Is that what demons are calling it these days?" beamed Sam.

"Shaddap, idjits," growled Bobby. "So, what the hell, if you'll pardon my pun, possessed you..."

"Pardon his pun again," Sam actually giggled."

Bobby took off his hat, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You know, I'm pretty sure that Mark V Anti-Demon rounds would work on humans too," he announced.

"Shooting us with consecrated dog shit won't kill us," Dean pointed out.

"No, but it will wipe that idiotic smirk off your face pretty damned quick," Bobby smiled without humour. "Now, Crowley, why are you here?"

"Well," said Dean thoughtfully, "There was a mummy angel and a daddy angel..."

"Who were married, and very much in love," Sam added quickly.

"Yeah, totally," Dean nodded, "Anyway, one night they turned off the lights and did what we call Special Cuddles, and then the mummy angel laid an egg, and..."

"ENOUGH!" barked Bobby. "You're as funny as a fart in a space suit, Winchester, so muzzle it! Crowley, you're a frigging demon – why don't you ask another demon what's happened? Senior Librarian Verael..."

"I can't!" yelped Crowley, his feathers rustling in agitation, "I can't let anybody see me like this! I'll be a laughing stock!"

"We're sorry to interrupt, Mr Singer," Orgle apologised, "But he wouldn't leave his office, and he didn't want to see anybody Downstairs. I didn't know who else to ask."

"That's okay, Orgle," Bobby sounded resigned, "You did good."

"He did?" Dean blinked in some confusion.

"Yeah, he did," Bobby confirmed. "I'm guessin' that Crowliel here doesn't want any of the Hierarchy here to see him, because if they do, they'll decide that he has to go. They barely tolerate him as it is – they put up with him because he's useful, and gettin' rid of him would mean the inconvenience of havin' to find somebody else to do the drudgework of keepin' the place running. But they will not put up with a King Of Hell who looks in any way angelic; it'd be the Hellside equivalent of storming the castle with the pitchforks and torches."

"As ever, the Man Of Knowledge has got it right," Crowley confirmed, "They'd take it as an insult to have Hell run by somebody who looks like this," he gestured irritably at his added features, "And I will be reduced to a sad little pile of feathers and a criminally maltreated very expensive tie."

"And we don't want that, because we'll have a civil war Down There while they all try to claw their way to the top of the heap," Bobby sighed, "And sooner or later their pigtail-pullin' and sandcastle-kickin' will spill over into Topside reality, which definitely constitutes our problem."

"Exactly," nodded Crowley, "I think somebody wants that. I think somebody has deliberately cursed me to that end. They are forever scheming and plotting. It's just as natural to them as breathing is to you, Bobby, or as huffing like a cat's arse is to Bullwinkle there, or as what old Father McWilliam used to refer to as 'ungodly self-abuse' is to Mr Harry Palms here..."

"All right, all right," Bobby held up a hand, "So you think this is a curse?"

"It has to be!" yelped Crowley. "What else could it be? Look at me! I'm turning into the opposition! And there was something wrong with my booze Downstairs, but I desperately need a drink, even the rotgut you laughingly refer to as 'liquor' will do, Bobby, love, take pity on me..."

"Anything at this point to shut you up, Your Majesty," grumbled Bobby, motioning to Orgle to fetch Crowley a drink. "It looks like we'll be hitting the research, then. Don't pull those faces," he added sternly, glaring at the Winchesters. "You chuckleheads were gettin' bored? Well, here's your next job, savin' the world again, huzzah."

"He's so mean," whispered Sam theatrically.

"He's a total assbutt," Dean replied. Bobby slapped them both upside the head.

Under Bobby's direction, they set up in the living room, fetching piles of books and a couple of aged and fragile scrolls, while Orgle busied himself in the kitchen, preparing coffee.

"Here you are, Mr Singer," the fiend carefully placed a mug at Bobby's elbow, "Mr Winchester, Mr Winchester, and a drink for you, Mr Crowley."

"Oh, you are a treasure, Orgle," Crowley clutched at the glass, and raised it to take a gulp of Bobby's whisky. "As soon as we have this unfortunate incident sorted out, Bobby, I must fetch you something a little more like single malt, and a little less like rancid panther piss... Aaaaargh!" The King Of Hell sprayed a mouthful of booze over himself. "Aaaaaargh! Oh, that's even more disgusting than I remember..."

"You aint obliged to drink it, princess," growled Bobby, not looking up from his book, "So, shut up, and check the first four chapters of that one."

They worked for a couple of hours, making absolutely no progress at all, while Orgle kept the dogs amused, playing tug of war with Jimi and Gedda, and Crowley kept trying to drink his drink, and making ever more disgusted noises.

"I can't stand this!" he announced abruptly, "I cannot tolerate this complete lack of drinkable alcohol! I'm going to fetch myself something decent..."

"I thought you didn't want anybody to see you like this," queried Sam.

"They won't," Crowley replied, "It's outside of working hours in Glenlivet, I'll just pop right into the distillery's cellar, and acquire a few bottles, nobody will even know I was there. Back in a mo, Bobby, tell you what, I'll pinch us some of their 25-year-old single malt, it's like virgins pissing on your tonsils, mate."

Crowley smiled, and conspicuously failed to disappear. However, his wings did flail around, and the end of one clipped him smartly on the ear, whilst the other slapped him in the face.

"OW! OW!" he yelled, waving his hands madly over his head to protect himself from the furiously flapping feathers. "OW! Aaaargh! They're attacking me!"

"Stop tryin' to leave, idjit!" barked Bobby. Crowley kept howling, but the wings slumped awkwardly to twitching rest behind him.

"What just happened?" asked Sam, intrigued. "Did the wings attack him because they're angelic and he's demonic?"

"I think it's simpler than that," Bobby couldn't stifle his grin, "His demon mojo isn't workin', and he doesn't know how to use his wings. Orgle brought them here, right?" The fiend looked up from his game with the dogs, and nodded. "Well, have you ever watched a fledgling bird tryin' to fly? He's like that."

"But... but that means I can't go anywhere!" Crowley practically wailed, "I cant translocate myself! I'll have to walk! Like a squashy mortal person!" His face screwed up in anguish. "This is humiliating! OW!" His wings picked up on his agitation, and began to flail about again.

"Stop it!" snapped Bobby. "Stop it, asshat! You're makin' it worse!" Crowley managed to subdue his despair enough to make his wings droop again. "All right, then," he went on, "This whole clusterfuck will go easier for everybody if you get some control over the damned things."

"How do I do that?" asked Crowley miserably.

"Same way a baby bird does," Bobby told him. "Go outside, and practise."

"That's right," Sam informed them, "Birds learn through a combination of instinct and practice. Basically, they, uh, fall out of the tree until they get the idea..."

"No problem," Dean smiled broadly, "We'll just take him upstairs, then throw him out the window until he gets the idea."

"No!" shrieked Crowley, "You can't do that!"

"Watch me," Dean smiled angelically.

"But I'm not a baby bird!" Crowley pointed out, "Baby birds have parents to show them what to do, yes? I don't have any birdy parents!"

"I'm happy to shove worms and snails down your throat," Dean volunteered cheerfully.

"Maybe not birds," mused Bobby, "Come on outside."

"I really don't think this will work," griped Crowley, as they all made their way outside into the yard, "I appreciate your willingness to help, Bobby, I really do, love, but I really don't think it's going to help having you stand in front of me and flap your arms and say 'Just do this, cheep cheep cheep'."

"Oh, I won't be doin' any flappin'," Bobby's grin held just a touch of gleeful malice, "I'll leave it to the experts. Tiem! Zan! Get your stony asses down here!"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"The mechanics are the same!" shouted Sam to Crowley, who hung at roof height between the two hovering gargoyles, "Just watch what they do!"

"Aaaaaaiiiiiieeeeeeee!" yodelled Crowley, his wings flapping in an uncoordinated fashion. Zan, the larger and younger of the two gargoyles, let go of the King Of Hell's arm, provoking an even louder shriek, and hovered in front of him, demonstrating the required wing movement.

"You're doing very well, Mr Crowley!" Orgle called encouragingly, as Tiem once more patiently patted Crowley's wings in an attempt to get them to flap correctly. Gedda and Jimi barked encouragement.

Tiem and Zan the gargoyles had arrived at Singer Salvage several years previously, when Sam had inadvertently invited them to take guard duty there by transliterating a Latin inscription written with the Greek alphabet. Bobby had thought at first that they were one of Dean's practical jokes, but after they thwarted a demon's attempt to invade his house, and made a huge dent in the feral pigeons that infested his yard, he welcomed them to stay. They blended in so naturally that nobody ever noticed that they hadn't been there forever. In fact, nobody ever even remarked on the fact that they were usually clutching travel mugs of coffee (a taste that Zan had developed).

"This aint workin'," humphed Bobby, watching the gargoyles' fruitless efforts, "You'd better bring him down again, guys."

The two gargoyles carefully drifted earthward to deposit Crowley gently on terra firma, where he fell to the ground, grasped it, and nuzzled it.

"Oh, I love you, ground," he moaned, "I love you so much, I'm so sorry, I'll never leave you again..."

"Maybe he needs to learn the coordination first," Sam suggested, "Maybe his flight muscles just don't know what to do yet. Maybe he needs to exercise them first, learn how to move them."

"Don't ask me where we're supposed to find an aerophysiotherapist," chuckled Bobby. "Thanks for your efforts, Tiem and Zan. Why don't you go refill your mugs?" The gargoyles smiled and bowed, and headed for the house.

"Don't you worry, Mr Crowley," said Orgle loyally, "We'll figure out what this curse is, and find a way to counter it."

"You know, I'm really not sure if this is actually a curse," mused Bobby.

"Not a curse? Not a curse?" Crowley's voice became shrill. "How can it not be a curse? I am the King Of Hell, and I'm turning into a bloody... one of them! And I can't translocate! And I can't find any alcohol that I can bear to drink! And my own wings keep beating me up! OW! See?"

"We've found absolutely nothing that suggests such a curse can be cast," Bobby pointed out, "And curses are generally unpleasant."

"Oh, well, that makes so much sense, then," Crowley let out a giggle bordering on hysteria, "I'm so glad to find out that what's happened to me is not unpleasant. Now, I'd like to celebrate my election to the office of Grand Poobah of the Masochists' Club, if I could just find some bloody booze I could stomach..."

"Bobby could be onto something," Sam mused, "This whole angel thing? Think about it. It's happening to a damned soul. For anybody else from Downstairs, be it a fallen angel, or a damned soul, or any other demon, it would be, well, it could be considered a really good thing."

"Like, a totally cosmic Get Out Of Jail Free card?" suggested Dean.

"Well, yeah," shrugged Sam.

"But I don't _want_ a Get Out Of Jail Free card!" whined Crowley. "Nobody asked me if I wanted a Get Out Of Jail Free card! I don't want to pass GO, I don't want to collect $200..."

"So, I think we should turn our research efforts in the opposite direction," Bobby announced, "We're not looking at cursing, or damnation; we gotta look at mechanisms of redemption."

"Noooooooo!" howled Crowley, "I can't possibly be redeemed! I've been a professional arsehole for a three centuries – I've worked hard to become the complete bastard I am today!"

"Well, first of all, let's see if we can find out what's happened," soothed Bobby gruffly.

Back inside, the Winchesters went back to the books, while Bobby pulled a dark bottle from the back of a cupboard. "Here," he said handing it to Crowley.

"What's this?" asked the bewinged demon miserably, "Please tell me it's Kool Aid laced with holy oil, I want to die..."

"It's consecrated wine," Bobby told him, "You might be able to drink it."

"Huh," griped Crowley, "Wine, Great. Rotted grape juice, drunk by snobbish gits who think it's impressive to be able to tell which end of the vineyard it came from. Oh, how the mighty have fallen." He opened the bottle, poured some into his glass, screwed up his nose, and tasted it.

"Well?" asked Bobby.

Crowley's face fell. "It's worse than we thought, Bobby," he said quietly.

"Well, it is only communion wine," Bobby began, but Crowley shook his head.

"That's not what I mean," he said sadly. "It's got a full bouquet, slightly blowsy but chocolaty nonetheless, with good legs and a touch of cassis in the aftertaste. And worst of all? I'm amused by its presumption."

* * *

Tiem and Zan the gargoyles set off for Singer Salvage at the end of 'Can You Dig It?', made their way there during 'We'll Wing It' and went on a Hunt with Bobby, Cas and the Winchesters in 'Piening For The Ones We Can't Save' (which included The Road Trip From Hell).

Reviews are the High-Speed Digital Press With Superior Colour Accuracy And Media Handling In The Copy Room Of Life!

...

No? It's just me, then.

All right. Send reviews, because Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Pouring You Your Favourite Drink On The Porch Of Life!


	4. Chapter 4

I've been a stationery fetishist from a very young age, but now I am now shamelessly coveting a full small business colour press. Magazines come out the other end. *faints*

* * *

**Chapter Four**

By the end of the day, Sam has spent a number of hours combing theological texts, Bobby had been on the phone to a priest, a vicar, a rabbi, an imam and an experienced Sikh granthi, and Dean had become fascinated with a book called _The Complete Idiot's Guide To Catholicism_.

"It's not a proper job if I don't get to kill something," muttered the elder Winchester.

"What a coincidence," Crowley smiled sweetly, "I was just thinking the same thing..."

"I got Mark V rounds locked and loaded," warned Bobby as he came back into the room.

"Hey, according to this, if your spouse dies, you're not supposed to marry their sibling," Dean informed them, "But if the marriage was never consummated, you can get a dispensation to do so."

"It's the Rule of Affinity," Sam told him, without looking up. "And it's not really relevant."

"So, I could marry Pippa Middleton, but so long as I didn't do her, if she died, could I end up married to Princess Kate!" Dean deduced brightly.

"Dean, it doesn't work like that, and she's not a princess, she's a duchess..."

"It says here, Catholics aren't allowed to give their kid the name Voldemort when they get baptised," Dean read. "Have you seen some of the fanfics that the really rabid fans write? Naming their kids after him is the least of the Church's worries..."

"It's more usual to take a saint's name, although it isn't compulsory," Sam commented.

"They had homos in the early Church," announced Dean, changing topic again the way Zsa Zsa Gabor changed husbands. "Two sorts of homos, in fact. I had no idea that Catholicism was ever so inclusive..."

"That was the homoousionists and homoiousionists Dean, not homosexuals," Sam rolled his eyes audibly, "They disagreed about the nature of the Father and the Son, whether they were of the same substance, or of like but dissimilar substance, which was a kind of compromise between orthodoxy and the Arian heresy..."

"They persecuted people because of their star sign?" Dean looked confused.

"No, no, no," cut in Crowley irritably, "They persecuted them because they were deemed heretics, on account of saying that God the Son was an entity subordinate to God the Father. The party line is, they are all one and the same thing. 'The Father is God, and the first Divine Person of the Blessed Trinity. The Son is God, and the second Divine Person of the Blessed Trinity. The Holy Spirit is God, and the third Divine Person of the Blessed Trinity. By the Blessed Trinity is meant one God in three Divine Persons'..."

"Well, slap my ass and call me Shirley," chortled Bobby, putting away his cell, "Never thought I'd hear the King Of Hell recitin' catechism."

"Oh, it's not something you forget," Crowley said mournfully, "If you have it beaten into you hard enough when you're young enough."

"Tell me about it," snorted Bobby. "Father Flaherty sure packed a hell of a slap for such a weedy old man."

"It was Sister Josephus," Crowley actually shuddered, his wings fluttering in agitation, "She used canes. And when she split one across your backside, you had to pay for a new one. Then I'd get a hiding from my father, as well."

"There aint no Double Jeopardy rule in catechism class," noted Bobby grimly.

"There is a reverse Double Jeopardy in operation in Catholicism, though," noted Sam. "According to doctrine, if you're not adequately free of sin, if you have things to atone for, but you're not sinful enough to be damned to Hell, you don't go directly to Heaven, you go to Purgatory, where you can be purged of your sins."

"Yeah, 'purged' being the operative word," griped Dean, "Remember when Cas and I ended up there? The food was terrible; on the upside, it was an immediate, if somewhat drastic, remedy for the usual effects of travelling by AngelAir..." He glared at Crowley. "It was your fault, and it wasn't anything like you said," he accused.

"All right, all right, mea maxima culpa," Crowley placated, "You made your point very clear – that postcard from Purgatory was quite possibly the rudest communication I've ever received..."

"Cases of Purgatory Belly notwithstandin'," frowned Bobby, "What Sam is getting at is that there's a mechanism for supposedly shortenin' a soul's time there. It's the ritual of prayin' for the dear departed. Nobody's sure if it actually works, or if it's to make the people prayin' feel better. But maybe it does..."

"Coupons," Dean decided, "Like Holy Redemption coupons. You collect enough, you get a trip to Heaven. And a free burger!"

"Dean, I think it's probably not that simple," sighed Sam, "And there's nothing in the theological literature to suggest that burgers are involved."

"Cas is Sheriff of Heaven now," Dean pointed out.

"Yes, but..."

"But I'm not a Redeemable soul!" protested Crowley. "I'm Damned! I'm a bloody demon! I'm about as redeemable as a share certificate from Enron!"

"Well, yes, technically, you're a demon," Sam began, actually sounding like he was trying to be tactful.

"What do you mean, 'technically'?" yapped Crowley irritably. "How can you be 'technically' a demon? Either you are, or you aren't. You're a demon, or you're not. It's like being pregnant. 'Ooooh, you're looking well dear,' 'Yes, marvellous news, I've fallen demon!' 'Oh, that's wonderful! How far along are you?' 'Oh, about four months now, and I'm really starting to show.' 'Nonsense, dear, your eyes are hardly black at all, you look radiant!' 'Yes, well, I've been working with the stokers, and the furnaces can get very hot.' 'How's your appetite been?' 'Oh, I couldn't look at a tortured soul for the first three months, I'd just throw up at the thought of a screaming sinner on the rack, but now I can't stop poking them!' "

"What I mean is that technically, you're a demon, yes," Sam went on, "But actually Damned? It might be possible to debate that."

"_What?"_ demanded Crowley, wings twitching spasmodically to match his tone. "I'm the King of the Crossroads, and King Of Hell! OW!"

"Yes, that too," Bobby nodded, "But what was it that led you to become a demon?"

"I made a deal, of course," Crowley rolled his eyes. "Leave the stupid questions to the stupid people, Bobby, it doesn't become you, darling."

"And what was that deal for, hmmmmm?" pressed Bobby. "Did you ask for the death of someone who'd annoyed you? Did you ask for somebody else's wealth? Did you ask to end an unwanted pregnancy for some girl you got into trouble?"

"Well, er, no," Crowley actually managed to look slightly shamefaced, "You, er, you know the details of my deal."

"Uh-huh," Bobby nodded, "And whilst wantin' three more inches below the belt might qualify as Lust, which is a Deadly Sin, or plain Stupid, which in my opinion _should_ be a Deadly Sin, Deadly Sins are not automatically Mortal Sins – they lead to other sins, Mortal or otherwise."

"But... but..." Crowley's mouth flapped, "I've done Mortal Sin! I've killed! I've stolen! I've done spells, that's Divination, that is! I've done it in full knowledge and consent! And I've called the Boss Upstairs more rude names than I've even called Pitbull Winchester here!"

"When you were alive?" asked Bobby.

Crowley was suddenly thoughtfully silent. "I wasn't a nice person while I was alive, either," he sounded defensive, "I screwed around, and slow-payed, and drank too much, and stopped going to Church as soon as I could outrun my father and Sister Josephus, and... and..." he stuttered to a halt.

"Oh, I don't doubt that you were a complete asshole as a human," Bobby assured him with a chuckle, "The thing is, I'm wonderin' whether you were actually adequately assholish to be Damned."

"But... my deal..." Crowley sounded confused.

"An invention of Lucifer," Sam informed him, "Not of the Divine order. The first one he tried, the Temptation of Jesus, didn't work anyway."

"Get thee in my behind, Satan!" said Dean promptly. "No, wait, that was supposed to be you..."

"So, theoretically," Sam continued, shooting Dean a quick Bitchface #12™ (I Am Going To Pretend I Didn't Hear What You Just Said You Disgusting Individual), "It might technically be possible for you to go to Hell, on account of a crossroads deal, but still be a soul that wasn't, in the eyes of Heaven, technically badly enough behaved as a human in order to be officially and unambiguously Damned."

"So, in theory," Bobby summarised, "It might be possible that you are being, well, Redeemed."

"But... but..." Crowley's mouth opened and shut a couple of times. "I don't WANT to be Redeemed!"

"This is old time religion, boy, what _you _want don't enter into it," snapped Bobby.

"It's only a theory," Sam reminded them hurriedly, "You've said yourself, Orgle couldn't find any other instance of this happening in the Infernal Archives. We'd have to identify a cause for it, something that had catalysed it, in order to conclude that it's causing the wing thing."

"Well, if there's something that can change demons into angels, I'm pretty sure we'd have heard of it by now," Crowley remarked trenchantly, "The stampede to get Upstairs would make Black Friday shopping look like a hermit's retreat."

"So, it would have to be something really rare, really unusual," Sam postulated. "Great acts of self-sacrifice, or selfless acts of charity, might do it. Maybe if you did something really spectacularly virtuous, it might get noticed by the Heavenly bean-counters, or whoever weighs up this sort of thing."

"Doesn't sound like the Crowley we know and loathe," chortled Bobby. "How about it, Your Majesty? Done anything selfless recently? Thrown yourself in front of a runaway bus full of disabled children to stop it? Spent a few decades ministering tirelessly to a community of lepers? Dragged the residents of a nursing home to safety as it burned to the ground? Dug with your bare hands for three days to rescue a group of nuns trapped under earthquake rubble?"

"Rescued pies from a flooded bakery?" asked Dean.

"Do any of those things really strike you as my idea of a pleasant Sunday afternoon outing?" asked Crowley incredulously. "The answer is no to all of the above. In all of those situations, my reaction would be. 'Point And Laugh'."

"What about unintentionally?" Sam persisted.

"Unintentionally?" Crowley gave him a look of disbelief. "How do you unintentionally throw yourself in front of a bus? How do you unintentionally excavate subterranean nuns? You should never have let him go to college," Crowley turned to Dean, "It's done strange things to the way his mind works, it's made him think like a lawyer, and I should know, I have to deal with enough of them Downstairs..."

"Okay, so let's assume there's been no helpin' little old ladies across the street or gettin' kittens out of trees, inadvertent or otherwise," Bobby cut him off. "We gotta look for other ways that this might have been triggered."

"Mistaken identity?" posited Sam. "Somebody else called Crowley, or Fergus McLeod, living a virtuous life, or doing a selfless deed?"

"It's difficult to say, if we don't even know how this sort of thing is accounted for," Dean observed gloomily. "When I was a kid, I had this idea that you had an angel sitting on one shoulder, and a demon sitting on the other, and they watched everything you did, and counted up your virtues and your sins, then when you were dead, they grabbed your legs like a wishbone and pulled, and whoever got the bigger part of you got your soul."

Sam gave Dean a long look. "Just when I think Dad couldn't have screwed with your head any more if he'd tried..."

"I can tell you there's no demon," Crowley said firmly, "I'd have to assign them, and I'd be able to see them. As for an angel on your shoulder Dean, well, the trenchcoat would be very annoying, flapping in your face all the time..."

"So, we go back to the books," announced Bobby, glaring at Dean, "And we do not open any cans of whoop-ass on the demon, Dean."

Dean subsided, muttering mutinously, and they kept up their efforts until well into the evening.

"Well, I'm beat," announced Bobby, yawning and stretching, "I've read the same paragraph three times. I say we call it a night, for now."

"But I'm still..." Crowley gestured helplessly at his wings, which returned the favour by flailing around to whack him about the head and shoulders. "Ow! OW! OW! You can't stop! I'm still set on auto-smite!"

"Maybe demons and angels and half-assed hybrids don't get tired and hungry, but humans do," snapped Bobby, "So shut your cakehole. You can keep at it if you like, but I'm beat."

Crowley tried to keep at the research whilst Bobby and the Winchesters ate, and Dean introduced Orgle to the joy of Meat Lover's Double Cheese, but every time he found something that worried him, his wings began to beat him up again.

"Well, I'm turnin' in," Bobby announced later, "So goodbye Your Majesty. Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out."

"What? You can't throw me out, Bobby!" pleaded Crowley.

"Sure I can," Bobby argued. "I just did."

"But I can't go back to Hell!" Crowley yelped, "Somebody might see me!"

"So, go somewhere else," shrugged Bobby. "I hear that moonrise viewed from the summit K2 is pretty. Or, the Mariana Trench has some spectacular geology."

"I can take you, Mr Crowley!" Orgle chirped excitedly. "I've never been to Pakistan! Or I'd love to see the black smoker vents in the Trench..."

"You'd rather I spent the night on the second-highest mountain, or the deepest ocean abyss, than in your house?" asked Crowley miserably.

"Yup," gruffed Bobby. "Oh, for cryin' out loud, don't look at me like that. I mean it, don't look at me like that. Oh, God's tits," the old Hunter huffed in annoyance, "All right, you can stay here. But don't you dare do anything demonic, or I'll shove you head-first into a bucket of holy water and jam rock salt into every available orifice."

"You kinky old bastard," leered Dean. Bobby slapped him upside the head once more.

The house quieted after that. The bickering from the Winchesters' room gradually subsided, leaving only an occasional gentle snore from Jimi, the low murmur of the TV as Orgle watched late night infotainment, and Crowley presumably wallowed in his misery, emitting the odd short shriek of "OW!", no doubt due to his wayward wings.

Bobby fluffed his blankets, whacked his pillow into shape, but found himself tossing and turning. It was usually what happened when he had a problem that was proving particularly intractable. After about half an hour of trying to fall asleep, he sighed and gave up. They were stuck, and he knew it.

With a certain air of resignation, he hauled himself out of the bedclothes, knelt by his bed, and put his hands together.

"Now I lay me down to nap,  
My sanity about to snap,  
I pray to Cas, in charge Up There,  
Before I tear out all my hair.

I already had two idjits  
Sam and Dean, who had the fidgets,  
I thought they would drive me mad,  
I thought just those two were bad,

Then suddenly, upon the step,  
Who should arrive, but Crowley? Yep,  
The King Of Hell was at my door,  
And not quite demon any more.

Crowley's grown some extra things:  
Halo, harp and feathered wings.  
And much to his own consternation,  
This has caused self-flagellation,

Seems the wings won't be controlled,  
Will not do what they are told.  
Problem is, if Hell finds out,  
It's civil war, without a doubt.

We don't know how, we don't know why,  
And so we turn to you on high,  
And hope that you know what the hell  
Turned Crowley into Tinkerbell...

And if tonight my life I lose,  
Don't let that asshat steal my booze.

Amen."

* * *

Dean and Cas's short trip to Purgatory as it would've taken place in the Jimiverse is detailed in 'Disappointing'. They found the experience to be... well, see the title.

The wishbone-style leg-pulling is something inspired by a review that one of the Denizens has written for one of my stories, but I'm damned if I can find it - if you remember making that comment, please identify yourself!

Feed the bunny reviews! We don't want the little bastard to clam up now. Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Fluttering About In Sparkly Wings In The Garden Of Life! (There have been some fairly disturbing works along those lines popping up in deviantart in the last day or so...)


	5. Chapter 5

Is there anybody there? *tap tap tap* Is this thing working? Hello? Hello?...

Oh, yeah, it was in fact _The Complete Idiot's Guide To Catholic Catechism_ that states, specifically, that Voldemort is not suitable as a baptismal name. Nor is Lucifer. So, you have been warned. There's also something called 'marital chastity', but I didn't want to read any further after that.

* * *

**Chapter Five**

Dean awoke from a very interesting dream, in which he had been keeping company with a couple of very interesting and very flexible ladies with some very interesting tattoos in very interesting places. "The very latest thing," the giggling blonde had told him, "Scratch and sniff tattoos!" "Only, you're not allowed to use your hands," the brunette had told him archly...

As he carried out the daily ritual of Man Arising – yawn, stretch, fart, scratch groin – it became apparent that Little Dean was awake, and had been eavesdropping on the same dream.

"Morning, handsome," he murmured sleepily southward, yawning again, and heading for the shower, thinking about the bitchface Sam would pull if he used his little brother's shower gel to wash away Little Dean's dirty thoughts.

Yep, a decent shower was one of life's most underappreciated little luxuries, Dean thought contentedly, a decent shower, a shower as a shower was intended to be, with good water pressure, and lots of hot water, and fluffy towels that weren't like threadbare cardboard, and washcloths that were bigger than a postcard and weren't like sandpaper, a very showery shower, with swirling steam, and some pH-balanced wash for sensitive skin and no interruptions, an enjoyable shower, where a man could be alone with his own thoughts, as interesting as they might be. Such a shower could be a happy shower, a very happy shower, a very very happy shower indeed, with no other intrusions, save the rush of the water, and the gentle flap of the shower curtain...

A second too late, it occurred to him that the shower had a screen, not a curtain...

"Hello, Dean."

"AAAAAAAARGH!" yodelled Dean in a mixture of fright and outrage as he grabbed for the nearest cover (which happened to be a washcloth) with one hand, and flapped the other hand at the angel. "Jesus fucking Christ, Cas!" he shrieked, how many times do I have to tell you? PERSONAL! SPACE! Shoo!"

"My apologies," intoned the angel gravely, stepping back from the shower recess and cocking his head. "Are you using you brother's toiletries? You know he does not approve of you using his materiel for... Special Me-Time..."

"Why are you here, Cas?" asked Dean, glaring with as much affronted dignity as a man can when he is wearing nothing but a washcloth.

"I received a request for aid with a problem that you have encountered," Castiel told him, "Bobby sounded most earnest in his prayer. Given the nature of his petition, I thought it best to investigate as soon as possible, to see if I may render assistance. I thought I would say hello to you first." He paused, and gave Dean the Eye-Sex Stare Of Doom. "Hello."

"Well, Bobby will be downstairs," Dean griped snippily, "So go and render down there. I'll be down soon."

"Of course," Castiel nodded. "I shall leave you to your shower."

"Damned straight."

"Again, I apologise for interrupting you."

"Yeah, okay, you're forgiven."

"Thank you. I shall inform Bobby that you will be down to breakfast as soon has you have finished with Special Me-Time."

"Don't you dare say that!"

"Very well. I shall tell him that you will be down to breakfast when you have finished masturbating..."

"CAAAAAAS!"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"And so here he is at Casa Singer, lookin' for love in all the wrong places," Bobby grumped, finishing up his explanation of the situation to Castiel.

"Can you tell what's happened to him?" asked Sam. The Sheriff of Heaven peered hard at the King of Hell with his most penetrating MRI scan diagnostic stare, and Crowley cringed slightly.

"Bobby," Crowley whined, his wings starting to spasm unhappily "Bobby, he's doing that staring thing at me, you know, the stare he does at Dean until your adopted son starts to squirm uncomfortably and homophobically? OW! Bloody wings!"

"No, that was me," snarled Dean from behind him, already in a bad temper following the interruption of Special Me-Time. "Shut up or I'll slap your other ear."

Castiel let out a small gasp, and stepped back. "This is... most unexpected," he announced portentously.

"So, do you know what's wrong with him?" asked Bobby.

"There is nothing... wrong with him," Castiel replied, a small smile blooming on his face. "A better question to ask would be, 'What is right with him?'."

"Um, okaaaay," said Sam warily, "So, er, what is right with him?"

"He has undergone a miraculous form of ethereal transformation, whereby his unsubstantial essence has been modulated from a discordant transphysical interference to a perfectly tempered harmonic entity across ethereal realities."

"So, what is that?" demanded Dean. "Some sort of demonic Special Me-Time, or something?"

Sam looked just as astonished as Castiel. "I think what Cas means," he began slowly, "Is that Crowley is, uh, changing, into a, er, multi-dimensional waveform of celestial intent."

"Well, slap my ass and call me Shirley," gruffed Bobby in some amusement. "He's not just bein' Redeemed, then."

"He's... turning into an actual angel?" queried Dean.

"Yes," Castiel smiled again.

"Meeeeeep!" went Crowley, clutching at Orgle, whose every mouth smiled hugely.

"Oh, what a promotion!" the fiend beamed, "I'm so happy for you, Mr Crowley!"

"But... how?" Sam almost yelped. "We thought he just looked like one!"

"I do not know," Castiel answered, "But it is happening. To another angel, he clearly has the aspect of a very young sibling, a fledgling."

"A... baby angel?" asked Dean dubiously.

"For want of an imperfect human analogy, yes," Castiel nodded. To the astonishment of all present, he gathered Crowley into a hug, and the ex-demon was too overwhelmed to resist. "Welcome, little brother," Castiel told him in a fond tone.

"Meeeeeep!" went Crowley, his wings whirring in agitation, slapping him about the head and shoulders once more.

"So, er, what do we do now?" asked Bobby, torn between bemusement and amusement.

"I shall return to Heaven with my new brother," Castiel almost glowed with an inner happiness, "Where he will be welcomed and loved and taught by his brothers and sisters of the Host."

"MEEEEEEEEEP!" went Crowley, his wings thrashing. "OW! OW! NO! NO! I cannot be an angel! I'm King Of Hell! I hate you!" He sounded less like an irate, vengeful demon, and more like a three-year-old railing at an older sibling over some perceived slight. "I'm your enemy!" As if to reinforce the idea, he picked up the nearest thing to hand, which happened to be a mug of coffee, and flung it at the angel. The other angel.

"You are not," Castiel replied mildly, still smiling, "You are my brother, and you will never be my enemy."

"But... but..." Crowley's mouth flapped, "I've tried to thwart you and Heaven at every turn! I corrupt souls! I corrupt angels! I even corrupted you, once! I tried to kill you!"

"And I forgive you," Castiel went on in that maddeningly fond tone.

"You do?" blinked Dean.

"Of course," Castiel replied, still smiling serenely. "If I have learned one thing on my path to becoming my Father's steward in His absence, it is that angels cannot, must not, turn on each other." His face became sorrowful. "When we quarrel amongst each other, fight, it leads to nothing but conflict, and war, and destruction, and chaos, sadness and regret. It distresses our Father, Who just wants what is best for all of His children, mortal and celestial. Our Father has forgiven us, and He has allowed us to learn from our mistakes. Out of our love for Him, we will not make the same mistakes again. Forgiveness is the highest form of brotherly love we can show to friends and family. As Dean forgives me for interruption of his Special Me-Time..."

"Oh, fuck," Dean muttered, his face flushing.

"...And Sam will forgive Dean for using his shower wash during Special Me-Time..."

"What?" yapped Sam. "Oh, gross, you disgusting jerk!"

"So do I forgive my newest brother." He smiled compassionately once more. "This must all be very confusing for you, under such unusual circumstances, Crowliel..."

"Hey, that was just a joke," interrupted Sam, while Crowley's eyes bugged as he was renamed.

"Help!" squealed the King of Hell, wrenching himself from Castiel's clutches and clinging to Orgle, "He's trying to kidnap me! He can't take me to Heaven! I DON'T WANT TO GOOOOOO!"

"Well, now we know the what of it, but we still don't know the how, the why," Bobby reminded them. "Can you tell how this has happened, Feathers?"

"I cannot say," Castiel smiled indulgently at newly-christened Crowliel, "Only that my Father is the only one who can bring forth young angels, so it cannot have happened without His knowledge."

"Where do baby angels come from, anyway?" Dean couldn't help himself. "Because we know there's not a mummy angel and a daddy angel."

"Oh, God," gulped Sam, "Please tell me there really aren't eggs involved..."

"They come from the Garden," Castiel told them.

Bobby cocked an eyebrow. "Are you tellin' me," he began slowly, "That baby angels come from some Heavenly cabbage patch?"

"Joshua finds them there," explained Castiel, "How they come to be there only my Father knows. But your manner of arrival makes no difference, little brother," Castiel turned back to Crowley, "Do not distress yourself, Crowliel, once we return, you will learn to use your wings..."

"Bobbyyyyyy!" squealed Heaven's newest and most reluctant angel, latching on to the sink with a death grip, "Bobbyyyyyyy! Dooooooo somethiiiiiiing!"

"You know, maybe you'll have a better chance at finding out how this happened in Heaven," suggested Bobby. "And at the very least, you'll learn how to use your wings, and not beat the crap out of yourself every time you get annoyed."

"Nooooooo!" wailed Crowley, "Don't abandon meeeeeeee!"

"I guess we really do need to find out what's happened to him," Bobby conceded. "After all, don't you need to know if this might happen again? What if there's a sudden, er, baby boom of remodulated new angels?"

Castiel considered that. "It is a most unusual situation," he agreed, "Due to its unusual nature, I will allow you to accompany me, to examine the Archives to see if you determine what has occurred. Danael will be pleased to see you again, Bobby."

"Really?" Sam looked like a diabetic kid who'd just been given a new pancreas and a lollipop the size of his own head. "The Library of Heaven?"

"Hang on, hang on," Dean cut in as Crowley, "If you drag Crowliel, heh heh, Crowliel, to Heaven, who's gonna run Hell?"

"That's a good point," mused Bobby, eyeing Orgle, "But I think I know just the, er, individual to do it."

Orgle noticed Bobby's scrutiny. "Oh, no, Mr Singer," he said quickly, "I couldn't possibly stand in for Mr Crowley, that is, Mr Crowliel," 'Crowliel' let out a small sad squeak, "I'm just a fiend, only promoted from rack maintenance a few Topside decades ago..."

"Orgle, somebody has to keep the Hierarchy in line down there," Bobby told him firmly. "If they think that nobody's actually runnin' the show, they'll start swingin' their handbags at each other like they mean it. You gotta go keep a lid on it."

"But I don't know how, Mr Singer!" Orgle cried, wringing his talons together as he did when he was worried, "I don't know how to tell people what to do! I don't know how to run things! I don't know what to do, Mr Singer!"

"I think you'll find that you know more than you believe you do, Orgle," Bobby reached up to clap him on one shoulder.

"Certainly, I had no belief that I could perform adequately whilst standing in for my Father," Castiel reminded the worried fiend, "Yet I have surprised even myself. Sometimes I find it useful to ask myself, what would He do in this situation?"

"You've seen Crowliel, heh heh, it is kind of sweet, isn't it, well, you've seen him at work often enough," Bobby pointed out. "How does he tell people what to do? What does he do? How does he run things?"

"He yells at them, he does whatever he likes, and he fools some of the people all of the time and jerks the rest off," replied Orgle promptly.

"Well, there you are then!" Bobby beamed, and the fiend smiled back uncertainly. "You just get that mental picture of your role model, and do that."

"We need you, Orgle," Dean intoned seriously, "Mortals, Heaven's Host, and, yes, Hell needs you, they might not want to admit it, but they do. To keep order, and keep the system in balance. We need you, Orgle, Crowliel needs you, your fellow fiends need you, and the poor downtrodden little imps need you! Somebody has to step up, Orgle, and you are the... individual of the moment! This is your hour to shine, Orgle, Acting Temporary Monarch Of Hell!"

All of Orgle's mouths drew into resolute expressions, and he pulled himself to his full height. Three of his arms even saluted. "I'll do it, Mr Winchester!" he declared bravely, "I'll do it! Thank you for your wise advice, Mr Singer and Sheriff Castiel! I shall remember everything you said!" He turned several brilliant smiles to his wilting boss. "You can rely on me, Mr Crowliel!" he chirped, "You concentrate on learning how to be an angel, and leave everything to me!"

"Oh, goody," said Crowley faintly, drooping against the sink as the newly enthused fiend disappeared to take up his office. "I feel so much better, knowing that..."

"We should leave at once," Castiel told them, "I must begin to help Crowliel with his adjustment as soon as possible. This has been very stressful and strange for him. Do not gainsay me, you are overwhelmed, brother," noted the angel with concern, putting his hands on Crowley's slumped shoulders, "But do not fear. I will look after you, as a good big brother should do. I have learned so much about being a better brother in these last Earthside years." He turned a happy smile towards the Winchesters. "And I have learned so much about being a big brother from Dean," he added.

"Watch out, Crowliel," Sam couldn't help himself, "If that's true, the first thing he's gonna do is stir tabasco sauce into your strawberry milk..."

"Prick," moped Crowley in a defeated voice.

"Assbutt," replied Castiel affectionately.

"Oh, balls," sighed Bobby.

* * *

Please feed the plot bunny reviews - he dictated this, then clammed up, and I HATE it when they do that. He's just sitting there, looking up at me with big, sad, hungry eyes... *sniff* His name is Clifford.

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Stealing Your Shower Wash In The Bathroom Of Life!*

*To wash with it. That's all. You may pass them the loofah if they ask.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

For those of us who exist in a purely physical reality, limited to perception in four dimensions, constrained to the linear and one-way passage of time, it is impossible to comprehend the way a multidimensional waveform of celestial intent might experience existence, much the same way as it is impossible for a fish to understand airline catering logistics.

(Indeed, there are those who have experienced airline catering who would argue that it is clearly impossible for _anybody_ to understand airline catering logistics, because it's pretty damned clear that nobody really knows what the hell is going on, what with recycled plastic being dished up not only as the containers but as the alleged foodstuffs, you only have to poke the chicken and hear it go 'boing' to work that out, and something really weird must happen between the oven and the galley for those funny little rolls to come out hard enough to use as offensive weapons, which would actually be amusing given that you aren't even allowed to take nail clippers onto a plane now but you are given an item that would be completely capable of breaking through a cockpit door and bashing in someone's skull only it's not funny really because you're expected to eat it, which just reinforces the point, really.)

That man in the natty hat used the phrase 'lies-to-children' to describe the practice of simplifying an explanation, to the point where it teeters on the edge of becoming wrong but stays_ just _this side of correct, so that young children with immature intellectual capacity can at least begin to grasp at understanding. The moon causes the tides. Rainbows happen when sunlight passes through rain. Don't be frightened, sweetie, Daddy wasn't hurting Mommy, they were just having a bit of a cuddle. That sort of thing.

'Crowliel', aka The Angelified Demon Formerly Known As Crowley, had been born human, but had existed as a demon, and was well acquainted with the metaphysical aetiology, chronology, morphology, ontology, and all other –ologies of relevance, since Heaven and Hell are essentially flipsides of the same idiom, and therefore of the same nature, or at least very similar. (Given this, it does seem odd that nobody ever started an argument between homoousion and homoiousion with regard to the two realms, because it would've been a really good excuse to get out into the fresh air for some persecution, burning a heretic or two, maybe even organising a short Crusade to settle the matter.) Bobby and the Winchesters had no experience beyond being human – and neither do we. Therefore, it is the imperfect and limited, lies-to-children human perception of heaven with which we will concern ourselves...

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Castiel watched contentedly as the other fledglings clustered around Crowley to hug him and welcome him, which mostly consisted of clutching at his legs and smiling up adoringly at him until he wanted to scream and reach for a fly swatter.

"Hello, little brother!" chirped a small winged person that Bobby would no doubt have described as an adorable little munchkin, "Welcome!"

The angel overseeing them clapped his hands for attention. "Class," he began, "This is your new brother, Crowliel, and he will be joining us to learn to use his wings, just like everyone here."

"He's so big!" exclaimed one little angel.

"He's just the way Father made him," commented another, and they all nodded seriously.

"Your wings are very pretty," encouraged one more.

"We'll help you learn!" declared yet another dear little fledgling, "We'll show you!"

"Castiel," moaned Crowley, as the small and ruthlessly cheerful horde grabbed his hands and dragged him into their midst, "Castiel, if you have an ounce of mercy in you, do something!"

"I will," beamed Castiel, "I shall leave you in the capable care of Thomariel, who will help you learn to control your wings, and start to fly."

"No! No! Don't leave me here!" pleaded Crowley, "You prick!"

"Assbutt," replied Castiel fondly, taking his leave, as a chorus of cheerful farewells followed him.

"Lines, please!" called Thomariel, as the little angels broke off their excited chatter and arranged themselves in rows. "Crowliel, please stand at the front, so that I may assist you."

"Sure, teach," sighed Crowley, taking his position.

Thomariel waved a hand, and the airy space filled with heavenly, yet upbeat, choir music.

"All right, everybody!" smiled the teaching angel. "First position!"

The class all stood up straight, and extended their wings, except for the newest student.

"OW!"

"Just relax, Crowliel," instructed his tutor, grabbing at the flailing ailerons, "This is a stretching exercise. Think stretch. Relax here, good, now flex here... flex, flex, that's it! Back straight! Chin up! Chest out!"

"Do we do pushups later?" griped Crowley, struggling to make his wings spread. "OW!"

"Just keep practising!" Thomariel told him, "You will learn it in no time. Just follow the class as best you can. Now everybody, flexing and retracting, left wing, go! And flex, and back, and flex, and back, and flex, and back, and flex, and back RIGHT WING! and flex, and back..."

Trying to keep up, and still being thwacked by his own plumage, Crowley let out a sigh. He was a demon, a human soul that had been through Hell, tortured and twisted until it warped and broke – making him do wingarobics was just cruel.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"It's... it's..." words failed Sam as he looked around the large, light-filled room that seemed to disappear off into the distance. He had loved the whole concept of 'library' from the moment Dean had first taken him into the public library in whatever town they were staying in, hoping to distract his little brother from asking questions about when Daddy would be home.

A faint scent hung in the air, a combination of acid-free paper, baking cookies, brewing coffee and freshly laundered linen. There was a subdued hum about the place, as angels and some souls browsed the shelves, sat at sumptuous desks making notes, or reclined on large chairs and sofas, reading.

"I could get to like it here," grinned Bobby, taking in the serene surroundings.

"Yeah, yeah, it's a whole bunch of books, wow," Dean sounded like a teenager dragged to the opera by his parents when all his friends had gone off to a Slayer gig, "Can we get on with this before I die of boredom and end up here permanently?"

"Well, I guess we should start at the Information desk," shrugged Bobby, heading for the large counter of ancient dark wood, while Sam gave Dean a hearty Bitchface #11™ (I Am Appalled Dean, I'm Pretty Sure One Of Us Was Actually Adopted). A small cherub sat on a pile of books reading a scroll.

"Hello!" he said, springing into the air and hovering at eye level, "Can I help you?"

"I hope so," Bobby replied, as Sam continued to gaze around in wonder, "Castiel has arranged for us to visit, to look up some information..."

"Oh, yes!" The cherub smiled, and clapped his hands, "I got the memo! You are Bobby, and this must be Sam and Dean, yes? I am Menariel. I am a catalogue cherub, I have been waiting to assist you!"

"A catalogue cherub?" queried Sam. "What does a catalogue cherub do?"

"Well, it's my job to know where things are," explained Menariel.

"What sort of things?" pressed Sam.

Menariel thought for a moment. "Everything," he replied, as if not understanding the question.

"Really?" Dean sounded interested for the first time since they'd arrived.

"Really," confirmed Menariel.

"So, if I asked you where my red Zippo has gone..." began Bobby.

"It's stuck down the back of the largest sofa's cushions, on the right hand side," replied the cherub.

"Huh, good guess," sniffed Dean. "Anyone could guess that's where a lost lighter would be. So, where's Bruce?"

"Who's Bruce?" asked Sam.

"He was one of my slot cars," Dean explained, "He was blue. He was my favourite."

"I'm afraid he was destroyed in the fire," answered Menariel regretfully, "But Colin was scavenged by a small boy a few days later – he still makes an appearance at enthusiast meetings from time to time."

"Colin?" Sam looked dubious.

"Colin was yellow," Dean snorted dismissively, "I didn't like him so much. Okay, then, where's my September issue of _Busty Asian Beauties_?"

"Sitting in a recycling bin outside a trash depot just outside of Bartlesville, Oklahoma," the cherub replied promptly. "Under a copy of _Modern Drunkard_."

"Aha! I knew it!" Dean glared accusingly at his brother, "You threw it out, you bitch!"

"I didn't!" protested Sam, "I didn't! You left it behind!" His eyes narrowed. "Menariel, where's my red turtleneck sweater?"

"Wrapped around a brick at the bottom of a decorative wishing well in a garden in Billings, Montana," was the answer.

"I knew it!" snapped Sam, "I knew you'd done something with it, you jerk!"

"I did you a favour," Dean replied with a dismissive wave of his hand, "It was pink, anyway, and you looked like a total dick in it. I was not going to be seen dead anywhere near you while you were wearing that pink emo hipster abomination."

"As fascinatin' as this insight into your readin' habits and sartorial preferences is," interrupted Bobby, "We are actually here to see if we can figure out what happened to Crowley to turn him into Crowliel."

The Winchester subsided with a certain amount of pointed glaring and muttering. "Menariel, we are looking for any information that you might have on how angels come to be, well, angels. Also, on the redemption of souls that have been known to be sinners while they werea alive, or particularly afterwards."

"Afterwards?" Menariel's eyebrows rose. "Goodness me. Very well," his gaze unfocused as if he was consulting some mental shopping list to see whether he'd remembered to note down the exact brand of deodorant required, "I shall show you to a desk, and bring you the items you require."

Sam's eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw the desk. It was larger than Bobby's dining room table. It was a huge mahogany surface, with a gas adjustable chair, ergonomic keyboard and wide-screen monitor. A small high-speed document processor was mounted discreetly on the side of the desk. A parchment coloured leather-bound desk blotter sat in front of a set of dark wood pigeon holes and slide-out drawers, each of which held a neatly stacked and carefully arranged assortment of writing implements, rulers, markers, highlighters, sticky notes, flag tags, pins and clips. There was a tray full of lined paper, unlined papers, jotters, bound notebooks, and lined pads in three sizes. There were two staplers, three hole punches, a long tin of coloured pencils and...

"Jesus, bro, stop fondling the stationery, you freak!" insisted Dean uncomfortably. "This is the final proof that you need to get laid – when a man starts feeling up the desk, it's way past time for him to experience a beautiful natural act with a beautiful natural actual woman..."

"What does that button do?" asked Sam, as he sat in a daze, running his hands over the blotter.

"Oh, that's the refreshments," explained Menariel, pushing the button to make a beverage station rise from a sliding panel with a gentle whirring. "Here, you just put in what you want to drink, and here you choose a cookie or pastry to go with it..."

Sam tilted gently forwards until his head was resting on the blotter.

Bobby frowned in confusion. "Er, Sam, son?" he asked gently, "Are you all right?"

"Oh, he's probably just fainted," said a voice behind them, "We get that a lot with first timers." Bobby and Dean turned to see a distinguished older lady in a well-cut twin-set, with steel grey hair in a bun and blue eyes that missed nothing. "Hello, Bobby," she smiled, holding out a hand, "I was so pleased to hear that you would be visiting us."

"Why, hello there, Librarian Danael," Bobby smiled back, reaching to shake her hand.

"And I see that Dean has accompanied you," she went on, in the sort of voice that other people reserved for making observations such as 'Oh, you've come to visit and you've brought your rabid psychotic coeliac hyena with the bad breath and diarrhoea and lack of anything approaching housetraining'.

"Er, hello, Senior Librarian Danael," stammered Dean, remembering the last time he'd encountered Heaven's Senior Librarian and Archivist, when she'd taken a nonagenarian as a vessel and administered a spanking he would never forget.

"Now, I understand that you are seeking information about the arrival of one of the fledglings via circumstances that are unusual, to say the least," Danael went on. "Why don't you join me in my office – I have just called forth a pot of tea, and one of the cherubs has brought some delightful friends – and tell me what you know."

"Er..." Bobby gestured uncertainly at Sam, who was smiling blissfully and rubbing his cheek gently on the blotter, and making incoherent little noises of happiness.

"For fuck's sake, bro," muttered Dean dubiously, "I know you're a nerd in a nerd's paradise, but seriously, you come in your pants and you're on your own..."

"Menariel will keep a watch on him, and offer him all assistance," Danael reassured them, with a frown at Dean. "If Dean is not enthused about research, perhaps he could amuse himself in the play area."

"Does it have a bar?" asked Dean hopefully.

"No," she answered, "But it does have a ball pit and a trampoline."

"Sounds like it's exactly the sort of thing to keep you occupied," grinned Bobby, as Dean shot him an expression that came perilously close to being a Sam Bitchface™. "So, if you don't want to fully partake of the Celestial Stationery Experience, go play with your balls, so to speak."

"The least you could do would be to arrange for an angel with a hot vessel to read me a story," Dean muttered grumpily as he followed the arrows to the play area. "You keep all your clothes on, Sam."

It was kind of fun, he had to admit, it was The Ball Pit To End All Ball Pits, and the trampoline was well tensioned. It also allowed him to keep an eye on Sam, who seemed to have recovered from his case of premature categorization, and was making notes as Menariel flew back and forth, fetching large hardbound volumes.

He was just wondering if he dared to intrude into Sam's Happy Place to cadge a cup of coffee and see if the snacks included pie, when he suddenly thought he could hear barking. He thought that somebody must be listening to a documentary on dogs, then suddenly a large black shape came bounding through the wall on the other side of the ball pit, dropping in amongst the brightly coloured balls and floundering towards him.

Dean met him in the middle, and as the paws landed on his shoulders and the slobbery kisses rained down on him, he hugged the dog happily.

"Jimi! Jimi Senior! How you doing, fella?"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Orgle looked around the office. He needed a position of power, he decided, something that was comfortable for him, but would intimidate those he had to govern, like Mr Crowley and his nineteenth century rosewood bidet...

He heard a soft whuff from behind him, and turned to discover that Gedda and Jimi Junior had followed him.

"I am glad that you are here with me," he told them, patting their heads, "I suspect I will need all the moral support I can get for this."

He frowned thoughtfully at the desk, then arranged three monitors, two keyboards, a router, an external drive and a client connector. He nodded to himself – that was bound to give any of the Hierarchy pause, because they were all supremely suspicious of anything that smacked of technology. Once, he had even seen Mr Crowley intimidate a lesser marquess with a slide rule.

Orgle decided that he should start right away, beginning with the day's reports and returns. Some of the crossroads demons involved with beta testing the new online system, D.E.A.L. (Diabolical Entrapment Agreement Log) had reported that it was throwing up unexpected bugs. For example, if you tried to tempt a self-obsessed wannabe starlet into a deal for a killer physique, there was no problem, but offering a really great singing voice to a tone-deaf talentless narcissist resulted in the potential dealee having an unexpected reality check, which resulted in them doing something entirely unhelpful, like realising their own limits and finding a proper job or going back to further education. One particularly unhappy tester reported that she was preparing to clinch the deal when the object of said deal had blinked, told her firmly that he realised that his singing was truly awful, and had left to join a cloistered order of monks where he could take a vow of silence...

He was compiling a list of bugs to see if there were any common factors when both dogs started to stare at the door and growl. A moment later there was an impatient pounding from without.

"Crowley!" Orgle immediately recognised the voice of Duke Ganthery, generally acknowledged as the fattest demon ever to grace the Inferno. Even his Downstairs form was so oversized that Orgle had found it prudent to keep a large tub of grease and a crowbar behind the outer office door to make sure that the duke could leave at least as fast as he arrived. "Crowley, open up! I know you're in there! Don't you send that walking rag bag to tell me you're busy!"

Orgle took a deep breath, stood up straight, and with Gedda and Jimi at his sides for moral support, he opened the door. "Hello, Your Grace," he intoned politely, "How may I help you?"

"Oh, it's you," sneered the senior Hierarchy member as he squeezed through the door with a definite popping sound like an egg sucked into a bottle with a twist of burning paper, "Where's that miserable little piece of hellhound droppings who's supposed to be running the place? Crowley!"

"Mr Crowley is otherwise temporarily engaged, and has temporarily asked me to oversee matters temporarily in his temporary absence. Temporarily," explained Orgle.

"Don't give me that," snapped the duke, "That little worm's skiving off somewhere! I'm not one of the fatuous fools he can smarm with drink and flattery!"

"Clearly, you are not, Your Grace," Orgle acknowledged. "I can see that you are not one of the people we can fool all of the time – you must be dealt with differently..."

Afterwards, Orgle was left worrying that he'd done it wrongly – after all, he only knew theoretically what you were supposed to do with the people you couldn't fool all of the time, he'd never actually done it, and his paws were quite big and his talons were quite long and sharp. But there were no further complaints from Duke Ganthery after the old demon fled screaming with his trousers around his knees, so he decided that he must've gotten it right enough.

With a small feeling of accomplishment, he turned back to the day's reports.

* * *

Yes, all right, I'm bitter about the whole airport security thing, okay? I'm big enough to admit it. Seriously - they won't let you take a plastic nail file on board, but they give you cutlery once you're there. (Unfortunately, I nearly found myself trying to explain the ludicrous nature of this situation to some fat sweaty unsmiling men when I became quite grumpy over the confiscation of my plastic nail file - IT WASN'T EVEN POINTY - and snarled at one of them "Oh, please, do I look like someone who needs any sort of weapon if I want to hurt somebody?" Apparently, I did. Note to self: in future, keep sleeves down over tattooing when going through security...)

Ermagerd, I think I wrote stationery pr0n. It's the thought of that fully automated small business press, sucking in pdfs and turning them into crisp, glossy, bound OR stapled magazines, with high speed document processing, issue turnaround and true colour imaging...

Ahem. Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Writing/Writhing* On The Luxuriously Appointed Personal Desk In The Library Of Life!

*Depending on whether you prefer the stationery pr0n, or the Gratuitous Winchester Writhing.


	7. Chapter 7

_Friands, friands_, I meant to have Danael say that the cherub had brought some nice _friands,_ delicious little almond meal cakes, not friends. Although for all I know, little library cherubs make tasty snacks, but scuttlebutt around the Celestial tea-room is that Danael eats demons for breakfast, not cherubs (and makes her parchment out of their hides, and uses their blood for ink in her Red Pen Of Fury, and cuts off their noses to use as erasers, and wears a necklace made of their ears under her blouse, but that's all mere conjecture and untrue and very mean). Damn you auto-correct! That's it, I'm turning the bloody thing off.

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

It wasn't a particularly impressive cliff, Crowley tried to tell himself: it didn't have a vast and raging ocean crashing against its rocky base, it didn't disappear into low cloud half way down, it didn't descend into a hellish scene of glowing, bubbling, searing lava, it didn't even have a howling wind wailing relentlessly across it against a backdrop of sinister black rumbling thunderheads shot through with jagged streaks of lightning. It was more of a cliffette, really, with springy green grass underfoot, a steady breeze coming in, and a safety rail along it. Nonetheless, he didn't like it. What he liked even less was the gate in the safety fence. What he liked even less than even less was that Thomariel was opening that gate.

"Now, class," the flight instructor addressed the excitedly chittering fledglings, "It's time for gliding practice. Remember, angle those primaries to catch the air, just like we practised. Everybody show me!"

A dozen pairs of wings sprang out...

"Ow!"

"Trailing edge, Crowliel, trailing edge! Now, remember, maximise your aspect ratio, and if you can manage to level out into a steady glide, you may try a couple of gentle flaps. Everybody show me their gentle flaps!"

"OW! _OW!_"

"From the carpal joint, Crowliel, don't just thrash your pinions! Oh, never mind, you'll pick it up as we go along. Now, form a line in order, please, and do not step up to the gate until I call you."

Crowley found himself towards the front of the line that formed along the safety rail and mournfully noted that he'd have been able to be further back if he'd been rechristened Fergiel. The class watched eagerly as the first chubby little fledgling, who was clearly destined to be a cherub, stepped into the railing gap, toes over the edge and face a picture of concentration, and stretched out his fluffy little wings.

"In your own time, Anriel," prompted Thomariel. The fledgling leaned into the wind, then jumped.

At first he seemed to be falling, and he must've thought so too, because his wings retracted slightly, but then they stretched out again and caught the air, slowing and angling his descent into a slightly choppy but definite glide. He even tried a flap or two as he levelled out, which made for an awkward landing, but he stood up and smiled and waved back to his cheering classmates still on the cliff.

"Very well done!" called Thomariel, gesturing to the next in line, "Now, class, notice that Bryniel, who will be a Warrior of Heaven, has a shorter wing span, for more agile flight – those of you who will go on to be Father's soldiers have to pay more attention to controlling roll and yaw..."

The warrior-to-be squinted determinedly into the wind, spread her wings, and leapt. Her descent was more rapid, and progressed as a series of see-sawing wobbles until she found her equilibrium and completed a smoother glide to the ground below, stumbling but landing on her feet, much to the class's delight.

"Very well done indeed!" called Thomariel.

All too soon it was Crowley's turn. "Er, look, maybe I should sit this one out," he suggested, edging away from the railing gap as his wings rustled anxiously, "Start with jumping off something a bit smaller, like a box, an orange box, then progressing gradually to something a bit bigger, maybe a grapefruit box, then possibly a honeydew box, then a watermelon box... OW!"

"Crowliel, there is nothing to worry about," Thomariel reassured in a maddeningly calm voice, "We find that heralds are generally the best and most natural flyers of all."

"Heralds?" queried Crowley.

"Of course!" smiled Thomariel, as the other fledglings nodded eagerly, "You will be an Angel of the Lord, a Messenger of Heaven. Why do you think you carry a harp?"

"Oh, of course, silly me," sighed Crowley glumly, "And here I was, thinking that it was all just part of some stereotyping intended to make me feel even more stupid than I already do. It is so reassuring to discover that you lot Up Here have the whole career counselling thing bypassed so efficiently right from the beginning – it's a Brave New World here in Heaven, people, now somebody pass me the soma..."

He felt a small tug on his trouser leg, and looked down into a confused but earnest little pair of blue eyes. "I do not understand that reference, Crowliel," the little fledgling told him.

"Come along, Crowliel," encouraged Thomariel, taking Crowley's elbow in a gentle but firm grip and propelling him towards the cliff edge, "Practice will make perfect! So, chin up, chest out, and first position! Now, class, notice how Crowliel's wings are tapered and pointed with heavier wing loading – he's built for speed..."

"No I'm not!" insisted Crowley.

"So you'll see that his glide is steepest and fastest of all..."

"No it isn't!" yelped Crowley.

"In fact, in no time at all, you heralds will be having races with each other to see who can get to the bottom in the shortest line, in the quickest time..."

"No we won't!" squeaked Crowley, taking a death grip on the railing.

"Now, Crowliel, there is no need to worry," Thomariel smiled and began to peel Crowley's fingers off the railing, where he was probably leaving fingerprints. "Angels are born to fly."

"Not me! I was a demon! I was born to Fall!" shrieked Crowley.

"But now you are not," Thomariel went on with infuriating patience, peeling a last finger from the railing, "Have faith in our Father."

"Bollocks to your Father, I have faith in gravity!" wailed the reluctant aviator, wrapping a leg around a railing pole. "Don't make me flyyyyyyyy!"

Thomariel sighed. "Crowliel," he began, "I am your older brother, your teacher, and your guardian. I would never do anything to hurt you."

"You wouldn't?" queried Crowley dubiously.

"Absolutely not," confirmed Thomariel, as he gave Crowley a smart kick in the shin. Crowley yipped in surprise. "Unless it is utterly and unavoidably necessary for your own good," added Thomariel, as Crowley tipped forwards off the cliff.

As the wind rushed past him, Crowley snapped his wings out and flexed his primary flight feathers, curving them as he'd been shown so they'd catch the air, generate drag and steer him into a gliding arc, to coast safely to the ground below and tilt up just at the last moment to pull up in a stall, and land lightly on the ground.

Well, that was the theory, anyway.

In reality, he was not so much gliding as plummeting.

"AAAAAAAAARGH!" wailed the displaced King Of Hell, wings thrashing desperately, "AAAAAAARGH! YOU BASTAAAAAAARD! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW HARD IT IS TO GET GRASS STAINS OUT OF CASHMEEEEERE –OOOOOOOOOO BUGGERRRRRR..."

There was a sudden yanking sensation that was both gut-wrenching and bone-jarring, even to a multidimensional waveform of reluctantly celestial intent that didn't actually have guts or bones, and Crowley found himself hoisted awkwardly into the air.

"I gotcha, little bro," intoned Castiel seriously, powerful wing beats arresting Crowley's fall and pulling him up to hover mid-air. "It's okay, I gotcha."

"What the fuck, you feathered prick!-?" spluttered Crowley, dangling from the scruff of his collar like a kitten being carried by its mother.

"I intended to visit you in your flying lessons to see how you were progressing, to offer support and encouragement as you adjust to Heaven and your new angelic nature," Castiel told him. "Assbutt."

"No, no, no," Crowley sounded snippy even to himself, "What the fuck did I just hear you say?"

"It is what Dean tells Sam when he wishes to reassure him that he is there to take care of his younger sibling," explained Castiel. "It is a form of verbal reassurance that I have noted to be particularly effective in situations where Sam may be worried or frightened. I wish to convey to you that I am here and will take you under my protection, and allow no harm to come to you, Crowliel." He fixed Crowliel with what either Winchester would immediately have identified as the Eye Sex Stare Of Doom. "I gotcha, baby bro."

"Oh, wonderful, just wonderful," moaned Crowley, hanging awkwardly in mid-air. "That makes me feel so much better."

"I am glad for that," nodded Castiel. "It is the feeling that an older brother should engender in a younger sibling."

"Oh, I hate you so much, you clueless twat," Crowley howled, "Well, since you're here to play Rocky to my Bullwinkle, can you at least get me down on something approaching solid ground?"

"Of course," replied Castiel.

"Good," humphed Crowley, "Because I'm not good with heights... hey, hey, hey! The ground is down there, you aerial idiot! We're going up! Down, down, you directionally challenged feather duster, down! As in, not up!"

"I am returning you to the top of the cliff," explained Castiel, "Where you may have another try at your lesson. Do not despair," he went on reassuringly when he saw the horrified look on Crowley's face, "I shall stay to assist you. I shall return you to the top as many times as necessary."

Crowley positively drooped as he was deposited back with his classmates, and Thomariel began to point out gently what he'd done wrong.

"Oh, goody," he sighed to himself.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"You know, I thought there might have been something useful in the story of the Harrowing of Hell," mused Sam, "The various sects of Christianity are pretty vague about what it actually means, and they all disagree with each other, but some theologians argue that it involved the release of some souls from Hell to enter Heaven." He sighed. "It sounds like such an inspiring tale," he went on, "The Son of Man descending into the Pit to rescue souls, and kicking the devil in the nuts for good measure..."

"Human holy books are flawed things, worded by flawed mortal minds," Menariel reminded him. "No offence meant – a lot of them were sincerely trying to do their best to interpret what they thought Father meant, whilst others thought they knew what their followers needed to hear. And at the time, what they felt was needed was uplifting parables. Then there were the ones who were, frankly, either talking to themselves, or just making it up as they went along."

"So, according to these," Sam gestured at the large tomes open in front of him, "It was a lot less, well, uplifting, if somewhat more amusing..."

"It was payback," Menariel nodded. "When the Son wanted a bit of peace and quiet to talk to Father and discuss how things were going, he wandered into the desert – it was a good cover, because prophets were expected to do that sort of thing. He refused to do the 'locusts and honey' thing, though, because he said it was cruel to eat bugs who were just going about their buggy business if they weren't actually eating crops or anything and it was a dry year and the bee population had crashed and he didn't want to compromise any hives by raiding their meagre food stocks. So, off he goes, leaving the equivalent of the rat race behind, but Lucifer tagged along, sick of being left out of the whole enterprise. 'I'm boooooored! I'm booooooored! I can't believe how boooooooring this place is! These people you're associating with are totally BOOOOOOORIIIIIING! Come on, Yesh, let's go and DO somethiiiiiiiing!'."

"Yeah, he's a bit like that," muttered Sam. "Me, me, me, pay attention to me."

"Exactly," nodded Menariel, "So, the Son put up with it, while Lucifer pestered him – 'Yesh, Yesh, make us some bread! I'll get some locusts and squash them up for dip, we can go watch a stoning or something!' 'Yesh, Yesh, hey, you wanna jump off the Temple? It'll drive the Pharisees crazy!' 'Hey, hey, Yesh, let's go one better, let's jump off this mountain! It'll be really fun! It's an awesome idea, you'll totally worship me for thinking of it!.' Well, the Son put up with it, because He's really terribly patient, and He knows how to bide His time. After all, Father is a great believe in cosmic comeuppance. So, once the Son was physically dead, He didn't have to be accountable anywhere for a few days, so He snuck down to Hell..."

"And put out the pilot lights on the primary furnaces," finished Sam, "Then removed the igniters, and gave them to a litter of Hellhound puppies to use as chew toys."

"Of course, the whole thing ran on brimstone back then," Menariel reminded him, "None of this Red Energy, damned souls as a renewable resource, that they have today. And you have to get brimstone above 230 F to melt, so, once the heat went out and started to cool down, they had to re-prime the system and fire it again. Lucifer was beside himself!"

"God the Son pranking Lucifer," Sam shook his head. "I cannot get my head around the idea."

"Why is it so hard to believe?" asked Menariel. "After all, our Father is said to have watched you arise in His own image."

"And the story of Lazarus doesn't count, because there's no consensus in holy writ that he actually went to Hell," Sam went on, consulting his notes, "And now it turns out that he wasn't even dead."

"Dead drunk, yes," Menariel confirmed, "Dead actually, no. Although when he woke up again, I understand that he felt like he'd gone to Hell, and heartily wished that he was dead. A fervent adherent of the Son's teachings heard him say 'Oh, Jesus, I feel like I've been dead for four days', and I'm afraid that it was reported incorrectly from there."

"Well, I guess 'Man is miraculously raised from the dead' makes a more austere and impressive parable than 'Man feels like crap after drinking too much and passing out until a friend comes to visit and ribs him mercilessly about his monumental hangover'. Although even that would make a pretty good cautionary tale," opined Sam, a veteran of such hangovers as sufferer and observer (and sometimes both simultaneously).

"The Son probably contributed a little," Menariel pointed out, "After He roused Lazarus, He made a great fuss about 'Behold, the dead man arises!' and called for a celebration, involving loud music to make a cheerful noise unto the God of Jacob."

"I bet Lazarus appreciated the gesture," grinned Sam.

"He tried to go and hide in a tomb," confirmed Menariel.

"The Son sounds like an interesting guy," mused Sam.

"Oh, He is," smiled Menariel. "He lived amongst humans, and is the Son of Man, as well as the Son of God. And Odin once described our Father as the funniest deity in the cosmos, so it's not surprising that His Son inherited a sense of humour. In fact, on the road out of Bethany after he'd visited Lazarus, He encountered a mutant fig tree, and it wasn't actually barren, it had these really suggestively shaped fruits on it..."

"Actually, I've heard about that," Sam told him. "From Castiel. So, there's no precedent for human souls, evil or otherwise, being Redeemed from Hell," Sam muttered to himself, sipping at his coffee. "This is really good, Menariel, what's in it?"

"Well, I took the liberty of peeking into your files in the Archives to search your hot beverage preferences," admitted Menariel. "I hope you don't mind – it'll be done automatically when you arrive here for good, anyway. It's a combination of hazelnut syrup, double cream, a modicum of grated Swiss dark chocolate, some spices and a spoonful of Nutella."

"Yeah?" Sam peered into the deep velvety depths of the delicious drink. "Well, I'm perfectly happy for you to go batch searching me if this is the result."

"I'm glad you like it!" Menariel piped happily, "Only, I'd be grateful if you didn't tell anybody. I'm not supposed to go poking through the Archives unless it's an officially requested and approved job."

"Not a word," promised Sam, sitting back and stretching. "Maybe Bobby and Senior Librarian Danael have had some ideas."

"It just so happens we have," Bobby's voice answered from behind him. "Danael suggested that we try to track this from the other end – we look at Crowley's details in the Archive, and work backwards. She says she'll make arrangements for us to have access to GOD'S TITS!"

Sam turned around just in time to see Bobby get thwacked in the head with a slobbery stick.

"Sorry!" Dean called cheerfully, running towards them accompanied by a large black dog, who bounded up to Sam, retrieved the stick, and pushed his nose under Sam's hand whilst whuffing a greeting.

"Jimi!" smiled Sam. "You found Jimi Senior! He really did make it up here!"

"Well, he found me, actually," grinned Dean.

"Oh dear," sighed Menariel, "Him again. Please excuse me, I shall just send a quick message to Denariel, the Guardian of Companions, before Danael finds out. He is a happy soul, but he has a tendency to leave a trail of havoc in his wake. Would you just hold him for a moment please, while I send the message? Only, he has a habit of chasing herald angels."

"Well, he didn't get a chance to chase mailmen when he was alive," Bobby pointed out, as Jimi greeted him and presented him with the stick. "What have you got there, fella?"

"He found his own stick," Dean said dismissively.

"That's not a stick, Dean," Sam noted. And it wasn't. It looked like a stick, but was actually a flute carved from a single piece of wood.

Denariel did arrive very shortly afterwards. When she saw Dean her face lit up, thinking that Dean had finally died and come to collect Jimi and take him from her custody, but when she found out that the Winchesters were only visiting Heaven temporarily, she covered her disappointment well, saying that they could of course keep Jimi Sr with them for the duration of their visit.

In fact she was grateful that they did, because that gave her a bit of peace to clean up the stolen flute, and write a letter of profuse apology to Lord Krishna, before Danael sent her another curt memo about the importance of maintaining good inter-pantheon relations.

* * *

Theology is a much more interesting beast in the Jimiverse. Anyone who wants to revisit what actually happened with the supposedly barren fig tree on the road out of Bethany can find out about it in the story 'Balls'. There's puerile acronyms, bickering ahoy and suggestively shaped fresh produce.

Please leave me reviews *sniff sniff*. I've been spoiled, and I'm used to at least ten per chapter. Oh, I'll just go and cheer myself up by watching YouTube clips of the Bizub C8000 press... with its nine input drawers... vacuum feed technology with air separation... third generation symmetry-plus toner... post inserter with six folding options... saddle stitching up to 50 pages - with fore-edge trimming... punch with 21 different die sizes... not one, but TWO decurling devices, a mechanical one and a dehumidification system... ooo OOOOO oooooooh dear, I think I need a little lie down, it must be the lingering lurgy, yes, that's it...

Tell you what, leave me reviews, and I'll bring in one of the Archangels, whom the Jimiverse last saw at the end of 'Pack Up Your Troubles'. Go on - Reviews are the Archangel Of Your Choice Reappearing In A Lampito Fic On The Interwebs Of Life!


	8. Chapter 8

Thomariel isn't named after anybody in particular, it just sounded like a good name for a flight teacher angel. You may imagine him in a long white robe, with pretty blonde wings, and a leather flight helmet and goggles a la Biggles. If any little fledglings looked too hesitant, he would probably say something like "Come along now, don't be a soft nellie!".

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

"So, there's some sort of record of employment in the Archives?" queried Sam. "Dean, don't let him do that!"

"Don't worry, he won't get your precious desk pregnant," Dean waved a hand dismissively as Jimi Senior began to hump the leg of the desk, "It's okay, Sam, it's perfectly obvious: if anybody is going to make love to this desk, you want it to be you..."

"Jerk," muttered Sam.

"He's just excited, Sammy," Dean loyally defended the dog, "He's just so glad to see us again. Although it sounds as though he's been happy enough up here Waiting."

"Denariel said that if she didn't have St Francis of Assisi to be a help, he'd drive her to unworthy thoughts and intemperate language," Sam reminded his brother. "He visits other pantheons and steals things as toys. He has a particular fondness for Mjolnir – he's chewed through the grip leather twice – she says it's a good thing that Thor is really a dog person who laughs it off, because otherwise there would've been a Diplomatic Incident by now. Then, he had to go to the healers after he engaged Odin's wolves Geri and Freki in some over-enthusiastic romping – the three of them ended up chasing Hugnin and Muninn the ravens, and he got his ears pecked for his trouble..."

"Hey, he's just sociable," said Dean, "Where do you think Jimi Junior got it from? It's a dog thing. They like to make friends."

"Well he didn't make himself popular in the Field of Reeds," frowned Sam, "The Egyptian gods are not dog people. He cocked his leg on Isis's favourite sycamore tree, he chased Ra's chariot, and after barking at the sacred crocodiles for fifteen minutes solid he curled up for a nap on Osiris's throne..."

"He can't help it if he's a cheerful soul," Dean grinned. "He's got a lot of energy, and a lot of..._him_ in him. After all, he was the Alpha of the Infernal Pack. Before I dognapped him from Crowley." The dog broke off his desk-seducing to rassle with Dean again. "I dognapped you, didn't I? And you made the most wonderful puppies with Rumsfeld! Yes you did! Yes you did! Oh, Jimi, you should see your little boy now, he's the spitting image of you, only bigger!" Jimi Sr. dropped to the floor and rolled over, then writhed in contentment as Dean rubbed his belly.

"Speakin' of his Infernal Majesty, we should get back to the task at hand," Bobby made a valiant effort to pull the conversation kicking and screaming back to relevance. "Danael says, if we look up his file, we'll be able to go back through it. If we can identify the point just before he, uh, angelified, we may be able to identify a causative event."

Sam turned to Menariel. "Where are the, er, personnel files kept?" he asked.

"Oh, they're all online now," Menariel informed them, "And just as well, too, poor St Peter just couldn't keep up using the old ledger system. Plus, it was practically impossible to look for information later. We certainly wouldn't be able to do any sort of search if we were still keeping paper records..."

Bobby nodded. "Okay, well, we gotta go talk to St Peter," he decided. "Jimi, quit it!" he barked, as the dog scrambled to his feet and scampered after a herald angel who'd just arrived. The angel dodged deftly, patted Jimi's head, flung something to the floor, and zoomed off.

"Oh, they're used to him now," Menariel commented, "They all carry liver treats now." He gestured to Jimi, who was snuffling something up from the floor, tail wagging. "I think it's a vicious circle, really – he chases herald angels, so they throw treats to distract him, so he associates treats with chasing herald angels."

"Well, this is supposed to be Heaven," Bobby chortled, "So I guess that's paradise for a dog; chase the mailmen and get rewarded, not scolded."

"I shall accompany you to St Peter, and help explain your quest to him," Menariel told them, springing lightly into the air again. "If you will just cluster close to me..."

Before he could transport them, there was a sudden outrush of air, a gentle flap of trench coat, and a pained shriek.

"Owwww!" yelped Crowley from where he sprawled on the floor.

"That was much better, Crowliel," praised Castiel, "Your crashing has become more controlled now. Well done."

"God's tits," barked Bobby, taking in the extremely dishevelled appearance of the usually fastidious King Of Hell, "What happened to you, asshat?"

"Flying lessons," humphed Crowley miserably as he climbed painfully to his feet and tried to dust himself off, giving up as he surveyed the tears, runs, abrasions and grass stains in his suit. "More specifically, landing lessons."

"Er, what's that in your hair?" asked Sam.

"Oleander," replied Crowley miserably, picking at the vegetation adorning him. "Thomariel thought that a couple of hedges to aim for and follow might help me steer better, and slow down a bit on final approach."

"And?" prompted Bobby.

"Well," sighed Crowley, "Technically, they did slow me down."

"Crowliel has been doing very well," Castiel told them, "His last two flights were clearly several degrees from vertical, so he is progressing from plunging towards flying."

"Please tell me you've figured out what happened to me and how to undo it," beseeched Crowley.

"Not yet," answered Sam, "But we've got a hot lead."

"Oh joy," sighed the Host's least aerodynamic fledgling, defeat writ large across his face.

"We shall be on our way, then," Castiel nodded. "Come, Crowliel, you can show the Winchesters and Bobby how much you are improving."

"I'm not flying anywhere!" insisted Crowley, resembling a tired toddler who's had enough of shopping. "I'm tired! I want a rest, a drink, and somebody to disembowel!"

"Do not be discouraged, little brother," consoled Castiel, "It will become easier."

"I'll bet somebody said that to Atlas, too," humphed Crowley, verging on pouting as he dropped heavily into the desk's chair, "And if he'd dropped the world on them, it would've served them righyEEEEEEEE!" He let out a squeal of fright as Jimi Sr. suddenly ran at him, barking happily, then darted in to nip at the tips of his wings. "Go away!" Crowley yelped, scrambling around the desk with Jimi following, "Go away! Shoo! Stop it!"

"Er, Crowliel," Bobby began thoughtfully, "You got the wings, and the halo and the harp – did anybody issue you dog treats?"

"What? No! Do I look like Cesar Millan to you? Shoo! SHOO! Call it off! Call it off!"

Jimi gradually closed the difference between them as he chased Crowley around the desk, then lunged at the feathers so enticingly rustling just at nose height.

"AAAAAARGH! AAAAAAAARGH! He's trying to eat me!" screamed Crowley, wings flailing in alarm. "Bloody mutt! SHOO!"

Wings flapping in ever increasing agitation, Crowley stumbled along the floor, then lurched awkwardly into the air, bobbing along haphazardly just out of Jimi's reach.

"Oh, well done, Crowliel!" called Castiel with a broad smile. "He hasn't even been taught take-offs from level ground yet," he proudly informed the Winchesters.

"Call it ooooooooff!" howled Crowley, flying choppily across the area with a number of angels and souls crossly going 'Shhhhhhhhh!' at him. He bounced off a wall, then off a magnificent potted specimen of variegated _Ficus benjamina_, and finished up clinging to a bookshelf as Jimi barked encouragement.

"It's because he's a herald," Castiel explained in the voice of a parent who'd just seen their four-year-old make contact with the T-ball on the first swing, "Flight comes very naturally to them."

"So does clinging, apparently," observed Dean.

"Go on, Dean, call him off, so he'll stop disturbin' the other patrons," instructed Bobby. "I think the sooner we go see St Pete the better."

"Hey, hold on!" Dean cut in, tapping at the refreshments station on the desk. "Let's see, cupcakes... strudel... Boston bun... yo-yo cookies..."

"Dean, I really don't think pie gets a very high priority right now," scowled Sam.

"Don't be ridiculous, Sam," scoffed Dean, "Pie always gets a top priority rating, but that's not what I'm after. Blueberry... banana... aha! Here we are, apricot, prune and bran muffins. If we're going anywhere by AngelAir, I want at least half a dozen."

After Menariel had taken the humans and their canine companion elsewhere, Castiel looked up at Crowley. "The dog is gone, Crowliel. You may descend in safety now."

"May I? Oh, thank you so much," griped Crowley as he slid gracelessly down to the floor. "Oh, bugger, can angels get splinters?"

"Come, brother," Castiel gestured, "It is time for your next lesson."

"No!" declared Crowley firmly, arms crossing and bottom lip going perilously close to protruding. "No! I mean it! I am not going to another flying lesson!"

"Of course not," Castiel reassured him, "It is time for your music lesson."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Orgle was looking over the minutes of the last several monthly meetings (compulsory for all demons under the age of 100 Topside years), and what he found dismayed him. None of them checked the Agenda, which he always sent out electronically the week before, the rates of absenteeism were high, and most of them didn't even bother to send Apologies.

Orgle himself rather looked forward to those meetings – Asmodeus, the demon in charge of Accounting, could always be relied upon to deliver a good solid lecture for at least a couple of hours, and whilst admittedly his PowerPoint slides were usually so cramped with tiny text they were indecipherable even from the front row, they often had amusing little animations, like text changing into screaming sinners and catching fire and running around shrieking. Orgle never really understood why he was usually the only one who ever applauded Asmodeus. No, there was something wrong, he thought, if the youngest ones didn't want to turn up. They were the next generation of Hell, they would be the tempters and disruptors and torturers and deal-makers of the future, and they had all just turned off. It was very important to find a way to engage with them, and get them interested in the business of Hell. He would have to make it a priority to talk to some of them, and find out what the problem was; all they seemed to be interested in was their iRacks, or messing around on Facehook...

He had moved on to reviewing the results for the Most Deals Made This Month Award when there was a pounding at the door, which he answered immediately.

"Where is he?" demanded the cruel-faced demon who pushed past him, "He's gone, is he?"

"Hello, Your Grace," Orgle began, "How may I help you, Duke Belaal?"

"Someone get this thing out of my sight," the duke snarled at his followers, as he looked around. "So, Ganthery was right, the old buffoon," he sneered, "Crowley has taken off. Well, that makes things easier."

"My Crowley is temporarily engaged with business elsewhere," Orgle began. "I am standing in for him temporarily. This is a temporary arrangement..."

The sneering demon cut him off. "No, you fool, this is a coup," he barked.

Orgle looked confused. "I didn't see a coup booked in Mr Crowley's calendar," he said doubtfully, peering down at the screen. "He has asked everybody to make their appointments electronically," he added a little reproachfully. "If you are having trouble working it out, I can show you how... so, you click here, and click here, then fill in the time as, well, there isn't anything really completely suitable, 'Busy' doesn't really describe it, but by the end if this week, I will write a bit of code so you can mark the time as 'Hostile Takeover', although I suppose it might be possible to use 'Out Of Office' for whomever you're trying to overthrow..."

"Shut up!" yelled Duke Belaal, "And get out of here before I decide you'd make into an interesting rug."

"Oh, no, I can't go," Orgle shook his head, "I haven't even reviewed the reports from Engineering yet, and I have to check the balance sheets before I can sign them off..."

"There will be no more reports or balance sheets," the duke seated himself at Crowley's large desk, "There will be no meetings, no agenda, no forms, and NO MORE POWERPOINT!"

The demon lord's followers cheered heartily.

"You can't do that, Your Grace!" Orgle was shocked. "If any problems crop up in Engineering we need to know. And Asmodeus takes such trouble to put his slides together, did you see the one last month where all the dollar signs turned into little Hellhounds and tore the numbers in the red to pieces? Oh, it was so funny..."

"I can do whatever I want," grinned the duke nastily. "Because as of right now, I declare myself Lord of Hell."

"I didn't see that memo," Orgle said doubtfully, "It would've been in the Weekly News Update. You'd need to have filled out the Higher Duties form, and have it countersigned... "

"Why are you still here?" demanded the duke.

"I told you!" answered Orgle, trying very hard not to sound rude, "There is a lot of paperwork to do!"

"Well, begone. A proper demon is Lord of Hell now." He looked down to where an imp was sorting memos by topic, and back-handed it to fling against the wall, where it landed in a squealing heap before scampering to Orgle to run up his leg and disappear into his pelt. "You are just a fiend, a lowly minion, fit only to scrape the detritus from the racks. You have nothing to threaten me with. You have no power. You have no followers."

Orgle looked thoughtful for a moment. "I have an imp," he pointed out, as the tiny thing scrambled up onto his shoulder, chittering angrily and shaking its fist at the duke. The demons chuckled in amusement. "I have the only other key counter to the photocopier in the Library," he added, holding it up to show the laughing demons. "And... and... I have the dogs." He pointed out Jimi, who was napping on the sofa, and Gedda, who was snoozing in the pot of Crowley's bidet. "They follow me around. Well, when they're not napping."

The old demon roared with laughter. "You hairy moron," he chuckled with great malice, "I will take great amusement in tearing your stinking hide from your miserable carcass..."

He was interrupted mid-gloat by a sudden stampede as his followers from his powerful faction bolted for the door, clawing at each other in their eagerness to leave.

Duke Belaal blinked. "Er," he said, turning to see Jimi sitting up on the couch and yawning to display his hell-teeth.

"Er," went His Grace again, edging closer to Orgle. Demons were not afraid of fiends, but every single one that had ever been brought forth from the tearing, rending and warping of a broken human soul retained a deep and abiding wariness of Hellhounds. And if one of those Hellhounds happened to be the Alpha of the Infernal Pack...

"Er," went His Grace again, swallowing nervously.

"It's all right, Your Grace," Orgle assured him, the light of comprehension dawning on his face, "I do understand."

"You do?" gaped the suddenly-very-alone demon.

"Oh, yes," Orgle told him. "Mr Crowley always says that you can fool some of the people all of the time – but clearly you are not one of them. Like Duke Ganthery. And so it is necessary to come to another form of understanding with gentlemen like yourselves..."

After Duke Belaal had fled screaming with his trousers around his knees, Orgle smiled to himself, and reached up to pat the small imp on his shoulder. Maybe this wasn't going to be as difficult as he'd feared.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Come along, Crowliel," smiled Castiel, steering Crowley past the Throne Room to a large light-filled chamber, "Your class is here."

"Dntwannatkamusclssn," mumbled Crowley, in the droning muttered vowel-deficient Buddhist chant of sulking unwillingness employed by generations of grizzling children being dragged to an unwanted activity. "Dntwannadntwannadntwanna..."

"Hello, class," Castiel greeted the fledglings who were chattering to each other and twanging inexpertly at their harps.

"Hello, Castiel!" they all piped happily, clustering around his legs to hug him.

"Here is your new little brother to join you for your lesson," Castiel pushed Crowley forwards. The fledglings turned their attention to Crowley, who whimpered softly. "I also have news of your teacher," Castiel went on, "Romiel will not be available to instruct you today."

A chorus of disappointed noises ran through the class.

"However, I have a special surprise for you," Castiel smiled, "I have arranged for an older brother to take over. One of your oldest brothers, in fact..."

"Make that one of your most awesome brothers," drawled a voice from behind them.

With little shrieks of happiness, the fledglings dropped their harps and rushed at the newcomer, tackling him almost to the floor.

"Hey, hey!" laughed their substitute teacher, "Is that any way to treat delicate musical instruments? Who do you think you are, The Who?" The giggling class let go, and retrieved their harps. "And who is this?" he cocked an eyebrow.

"This is our newest little brother," Castiel positively beamed.

"Oh, cock," groaned Crowliel.

"Crowliel," Castiel went on, "This is your big brother..."

"I know who he is," snapped Crowley, "It's not that I don't know, it's just that I don't car-oof!"

If being mobbed by fledgling siblings was embarrassing, being hugged by an Archangel was just mortifying.

"Hug me, brothaaaa!" yelled Gabriel.

* * *

Reviews are the Unexpected Muffins Popping Out Of The Desk Of Life! (If you would rather have it presented to you by the Winchester Of Your Choice, well, all right. Le sigh.)


	9. Chapter 9

Gaaaaah! Real Life sucks the fat one. The shepherd needed a foot stitched up, and the greyhound is on strict rest with an injured foreleg. I spent the weekend in vet waiting rooms. Now they're going stir-crazy, and driving me nuts. Oh, and work sucks, as always. Gaaaaah!

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

"Oh my Dad, isn't he just adorable!" enthused Gabriel, reaching up to pinch Crowley's cheek as the reluctant angel-in-training squawked in outrage like a teenager tackled by a particularly demonstrative aunt with too much lipstick and facial hair.

"Get off me, you feathered fool!" barked Crowley, his wings flapping in agitation. "I'm not you're brother, I'm your eternal enemy, the King of Hell, the successor of The Adversary, the plotter of your downfall and the opponent of Heaven, ow! Ow! OW! Pfah!" He spat out a mouthful of his own feathers.

"You're a self-flagellating fledgling," laughed Gabriel. "You dirty little thing. But seriously, it's okay, it happens as you grow up. You start to look at girls differently, you find feathers growing in funny places, and one day your harp just drops a whole octave with no warning..."

"I hate angels so much," moaned Crowley, swatting at his wings, which swatted back. "OW! Bloody wings! I'm going to deep fry them!"

"He's our newest brother, Gabriel!" piped one of the other fledglings.

"I know, Castiel told me," Gabriel nodded and grinned infuriatingly. "Truly, dear old Dad works in mysterious, and occasionally hilarious, ways." He ruffled Crowley's hair. "It'll be fun to have a baby in the house again, he's so, so, cuddly..."

"Get off me, you frigging loon!" yelped Crowley, swatting alternately at Gabriel and then at his own wings. "I – am – NOT – cuddly! _OW!_"

"I'm afraid you are," Gabriel went on in that infuriatingly happy tone. "We don't do the whole homophobic repression thing Up Here, Crowliel – we love our brothers, and we don't care who knows it. It's _agape_ ahoy, and don't spare the hugs!" He turned to the rest of the music class. "Don't we?" he asked, as they all nodded happily. "Why don't you show your baby brother how much you love him?"

Before he could protest, the other fledglings were clustered around Crowley, hugging his legs and gazing up at him adoringly.

"Of course we love you, Crowliel!" one assured him, "You are our brother!"

"Our little brother," added another, "And we will love you and protect you."

"I still think your wings are very pretty," confirmed a third little angel loyally.

"I will get you for this," Crowley hissed at Gabriel, shaking a fist at his 'big brother' as the cluster of fledglings cooed reassurances of their brotherly love, "There will be holy oil, there will be blood, there will be sigils of an anti-angel nature, and there will be a harp shoved somewhere that your 'Dear old Dad' probably never envisaged even when He was compiling His most extensive list of Thou Shalt Nots..."

A tiny spark of energy, pale blue and floating like a bonsai ball lightning strike, drifted from Crowley's fist and wavered gently and uncertainly across to Gabriel, where it bumped into his chest. It disappeared with a small damp noise that went _zzzzzzznit._

Gabriel's mouth fell open. "Castiel," he breathed, "Brother, did you see that?"

"I did," Castiel could not help but smile dotingly, "Our fledgling brother just did his first actual smite. He is clearly very advanced for his age."

Gabriel barged into the cluster of fledglings to give Crowley another crushing hug. "Oh, they grow up so quickly!" he sniffled, as Crowley's classmates chattered in excitement and congratulations. Crowley drooped with resignation.

When they had finished hugging Crowley, Castiel addressed them again. "Now, little brothers and sisters, Gabriel has recently returned from a very important errand that he ran for our Father," he informed the gathering, and all the little fledglings made suitably impressed noises. "And as His most senior Messenger of Heaven, I believe that there is much he can teach you all. Especially Crowliel," Castiel nodded fondly as Crowley scowled, "Who is youngest here, and would benefit most from some guidance and mentoring in his designated function."

"Yeah, yeah, just call me Seven of Nine," sighed Crowley in a defeated tone. "Just assimilate me and be done with it..."

One of the little angels tugged on the bottom of Gabriel's robe. "Will you tell us about your errand, Gabriel?" she asked with wide eyes.

"Oh, it was a very important errand," intoned Gabriel solemnly, "It was an Enunciation. Father sent me to the Froodians, who live on Planet Frood, on the far side of a distant galaxy. It was to inform the Holy Broodmother that she shall hatch the Great Reactor, the Brooddaughter of the Great Chemist, which is their name for our Father." All the fledglings gasped in wonder, except for one.

"Sounds appropriate," mused Crowley sourly, "The planet of bird-people gets a visit from a bird-brain."

"Actually, if I had to choose an Earthside analogy, I'd say they were more like intelligent ants," Gabriel answered. "Although I have occasionally watched ants on Earth and considered them to be more intelligent than a lot of people give them credit for. For a start, they never messed around with the whole opposable thumbs thing, that just seems to lead to trouble eventually..."

"Can we go and see the Froodians, Gabriel?" asked a fledgling brightly, as the class hugged his legs and took up the plea.

"Maybe," Gabriel tried to frown sternly.

"Sounds like fun," Crowley smiled humourlessly, "I'll just go and fetch my largest magnifying glass..."

"But that is for after you lesson," Gabriel announced, "Which will start right now with you all letting go of me, and picking up your harps. Including you, Crowliel. If you are old enough to smite, you are old enough to pluck."

"This thing can go pluck itself," Crowley mumbled mutinously, "And I mean that in the most unpleasant spirit of consonant substitutions."

"Will we learn to play the trumpet like you, Gabriel?" asked one fledgling hopefully.

"Maybe if you learn your harp lessons well," suggested Gabriel, "And you promise never ever to play it in the Throne Room. The Choir are so terribly skittish about loud noises. Which is a bit rich, really, some days you can't hear yourself think for them bellowing 'Holy Holy Holy' non-stop at pitches and volumes that can probably be heard by bats and whales all over the universe..."

"I shall leave you to your lesson," smiled Castiel as he departed.

"All right," Gabriel looked around, "Now, you gotta hold your harp like it's a big chunk of Rocky Road, firmly, so it stays in place, but not so hard that you crush it. Right. Now, see the red strings? They are all the note 'C'. The black strings are 'F'. So, everybody pluck a C for me! Great! Now, everybody play an F for me! Fantastic! Now, this is a fun bit, it's called a glissando, and you play all the strings one after the other... Er, okay, usually you use your hands for that..."

The class settled in to practise their first scales and some glissandos, occasionally pausing for Gabriel to help a frankly whimpering Crowley disentangle his wings from the strings.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Well," Sam said eventually, "This is... unexpected."

"What exactly were you expecting?" asked Menariel curiously.

Sam had to pause and think about that. Slightly demented wishbone-pulling analogies aside, neither of the Winchesters had really thought about it that much.

Well, there were the mental pictures that small children inevitably got when well-meaning adults presented enormously simplified and ludicrously dumbed-down versions of Religious Instruction deemed to be 'age appropriate' (the problem with that being that a lot of people never actually get any more actual formal instruction in their belief system than that). So both brothers had, like so many children before them, gone through a stage of imagining Heaven as a large park where people drifted around wearing pastel Snuggies and cuddling tamed wild animals (because that's what the pictures in the children's Bible Stories books invariably depicted – Dean had been distressed by the apparent absence of any sort of car at all), that Hell was like a giant bonfire where wicked people were roasted for eternity (depending on which school you went to, there could be some pretty explicit pictures in those children's books, and there were absolutely no Snuggies to be seen), and when you died, you had to present yourself to St Peter at the Pearly Gates, who frowned down at you sternly from behind his great big lectern, consulted an enormous ledger to determine whether you'd spent more time being naughty or nice (there was possibly some sort of collaboration with Santa Claus happening to share information and cut down on administrative costs). If you'd asked Dean, he might have suggested that the angel and the demon sitting on your shoulders would show St Peter how much of you they'd each got, then you'd be stuck back together to receive your verdict. Then he'd either a) smile, and open the Pearly Gates to let you into Heaven, or b) frown even more, and pull a lever and a trapdoor would open up under you and drop you screaming down to the bonfire.

Sam had learned a long time ago that it was all a lot more... _complicated_ than that. Although there were possibly Snuggies in Heaven, because it took all kinds. He had long since grown out of imagining St Peter sitting at a ledger, and knew that what he was 'seeing' was a perception and representation that his limited human senses and brain could cope with without exploding, but...

"I really don't know," he had to admit finally, "But I do know that it wasn't... this."

It resembled a line of check-outs, a neat row of small counters stretching off into the distance, with orderly queues of people of all descriptions making their way through.

"Of course, this is just what your human mind is interpreting, to present you with an analogy that you can understand," Menariel reminded them, as they watched a smiling angel hold up a scanner and scan another soul's forehead. The machine beeped, and the angel waved the soul through. "It's the size of the population, of course. St Peter could do it all himself thousands of years ago, when the numbers were much lower, but moving to electronic records has streamlined the process now."

As they watched, the angel scanned another soul, and the scanner produced a double-beep of alarm. The angel spoke briefly into a small microphone.

"Baptism check on aisle 67, please."

"Oh, there's always one," Menariel sighed, "We have signs up all over the place, asking people only to use the Express Aisles if they are absolutely certain that they have been baptised. And there are the heralds to help anybody and answer questions..."

As he spoke, a herald angel approached them. A name tag on her robe gave her name as Tinuminel. "Hello!" she greeted them warmly. "I am Tinuminel, an Angel of the Lord, a Messenger of Heaven! Welcome! Do you need some help finding the correct line?"

"Check-outs and greeters," mused Dean. "Heaven is Walmart. Who knew?"

"We are actually here to speak to St Peter," Bobby slapped Dean upside the head.

"Oh, yes!" the angel confirmed, "Please follow me. He is expecting you, and will be with you shortly."

They took seats in a small room cluttered with books, ledgers, print-outs and some pieces of what looked to be electronic components, and didn't have to wait long before St Peter emerged. He had the long white hair and beard that Sam had imagined, but also a pair of glasses perched on top of his head, and a top pocket in his robe that had a pocket protector, and a was full of pens.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," he apologised, "I've just had to reboot one of the servers from the back-up. Thank God that Castiel approved the secondary tape units – call me old fashioned, but if we hadn't had it running, we'd have lost troobs of data..."

"How much is troobs?" asked Sam.

"Troodlebytes," replied the old saint.

"How big is a troodlebyte?" Sam wanted to know.

"One troodlebyte is equal to oodles and oodles of terabytes," St Peter told him. "You're Sam Winchester, aren't you?"

"The Winchesters and Mr Singer are here to try to find out how the latest member of the Host was called into being," explained Menariel.

"Oh, yes," St Peter rumbled with laughter, "I heard about that. Castiel has been gushing about him on Flitter."

"What's Flitter?" asked Sam.

"Yes, you are definitely Sam Winchester," noted St Peter. "Well, it's something that some of the younger Heralds came up with, a sort of rapid distribution system for short messages or thoughts... oh, look, here's another one. Looks like we have another Flit from Castiel..."

A small Herald angel darted about, flitting from person to person like a bee inspecting flowers, strumming her harp and making an announcement. "Castiel says: OMF Crowliel just did his very first smite. Castiel says: OMF Crowliel just did his very first smite. Castiel says: OMF Crowliel just did his very first smite. Castiel says: OMF Crowliel just did his very first smite. Castiel says: OMF Crowliel just did his very first smite..." As she fluttered past the Winchesters, Jimi Senior barked happily and jumped up at her. She deftly dropped a liver treat, and evaded the excited dog. "Hello," she said, noticing their interest, "Would you like to Hallow Castiel?"

"Absolutely not," said Dean firmly, "I'm a guy, and he's a guy, well, he's in a guy, no, wait, that sounds weird..."

"She means, would you like to go on the list of people who want to be notified every time Castiel uses Flitter," explains St Peter. "He has quite a band of Hallowers. We refer to them as his Pinions, because they often get into a bit of a flap every time he Flits."

"Er, no, no, thank you," stammered Sam, "Although I'm sure that his, er, Flits are very interesting."

"Oh, that's very exciting news!" exclaimed Menariel, waving a hand. Another young herald angel appeared. "Flit: Well done little brother Crowliel!"

The small angel smiled, dropped another treat to distract Jimi Sr, and went fluttering away as the previous one had done. "Menariel says: Well done little brother Crowliel! Menariel says: Well done little brother Crowliel! Menariel says: Well done little brother Crowliel! Menariel says: Well done little brother Crowliel!..."

"What will they think of next," St Peter shook his head in amusement. "So, what exactly did you want to look up?"

"We thought if we could look up Crowliel's records, we could work out what triggered his, er, angelification," Bobby explained.

St Peter nodded, and sat down at a cluttered desk, tapping a a keyboard. "All right, we should have him here, yes, there we are, he's right at the top, being the youngest member of the Host." He brought up a spreadsheet that looked rather empty. "Here we are, Crowliel. Angel of the Lord, a herald, destined to be a Messenger of Heaven. So far, one flying lesson, one music lesson. He's slated for some remedial aerophysiotherapy, and supplementary flying lessons... oh, dear..." the spreadsheet updated itself as they watched, "It seems he is off to the healers. Something about a wing injury..."

"What about before his angelness?" prompted Dean.

"Well, this is not normally something we'd have for angels," St Peter replied doubtfully, "But I will check... goodness me," he sounded astonished. "There is indeed an earlier file. This one is appended to it. Let me see if I can open it..."

The document had other ideas. The screen went dark, then filled with what looked like random squiggles in glowing red scrawl. Strange wailing hisses emanated from the speaker, and a phantom hand, apparently made of smoke, drifted out of the monitor, and flipped St Peter off.

"What the hell was that?" barked Bobby.

"Oh, dear," the saint sighed, "I've seen this before. 'What the hell?' is exactly right. It'll be those wretched backers from Downstairs again..."

"Uh, backers?" queried Dean.

"We call them backers," St Peter frowned at the screen, "Because they try to get into our system 'through the back door', through non-official unapproved channels. It's a compatibility matter."

Sam was staring at the screen. "Compatibility?" he echoed, "So, you and, er, Hell, what, you're running different operating systems?"

"That's not a bad analogy," St Peter conceded. "Anyway, from time to time we find these files on our system. Oh, I get so very cross when I catch them. I'll just quarantine this..."

"No!" Sam yelped, "That's probably the file we want! Crowley, er, that is, Crowliel was a demon before he became, er, Crowliel. We need to read that file."

"I'm afraid that just will not be possible," St Peter told them, "Our system is not geared to handle infernal data. In order to do that, we would have to send the file back to Hell, ask for it to be decompiled, then converted, then sent back in a format we could read. And even if they were willing to help, the request would not make it to their system, because they'd have the reverse problem with our incoming message – it would become uncorrupted, and be illegible."

"Are you telling me that there's no communication between Heaven and Hell at all?" asked Bobby.

"There was never intended to be," shrugged St Peter regretfully, "They were supposed to be completely and totally separate."

"Er, that may not strictly be the case..." began Menariel, actually blushing.

"Menariel," frowned St Peter, "I know that you are one of the HERALDs, and that you take an interest in this sort of thing, but you cannot seriously be suggesting that you can decode this file!"

"Um, me, no," the cherub went on, looking uncomfortable, "But I think I know somebody who can."

"It's really important that we find out what's on Crowliel's file," emphasised Bobby. St Peter gestured to the cherub, who reluctantly sat at the terminal, and began to type.

Behind them another young herald flitted into the room. "Gabriel says: Oh, for Dad's sake, how does somebody sprain a wing at harp practice? Gabriel says: Oh, for Dad's sake, how does somebody sprain a wing at harp practice? Gabriel says: Oh, for Dad's sake, how does somebody sprain a wing at harp practice?"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Orgle peered carefully at the small cluster of shivering souls before him. He remained seated, and reminded himself only to speak and smile with one mouth – the ones he'd tried to talk to earlier had passed out from fright.

"Now, I'm sure you're wondering why I've called you away from the eternal damnation that you all so richly deserve," he began in his most reassuring tone. A couple of the souls nodded warily. "Well, I noticed that you all worked in Public Relations when you were alive, and I have a job for you!" They stared at him blankly. "I want to engage you for your professional knowledge and expertise," he tried again. They continued to stare. "I want you to make people like something that they loathe," he went on. Finally, a couple of them nodded.

"Wonderful!" he smiled, remembering only to use one mouth and not show too many teeth. "Now, here is your project!" He took the small imp that had been sitting on his shoulder, and placed it on the desk. "This is Phlegmgob," he explained. "He, and his kind, are you project."

The late spin doctors peered at the small creature. It burped noisily, and waved to them.

"W-what exactly do you want us to do with... him?" quavered one man.

"Not _with_ him," corrected Orgle, "_For_ him. I want you to stop everybody in Hell putting down the imps. I want you to make imps popular."

The cluster of damned souls looked at him dubiously.

"Um, I'm not sure this can be done, Mr Orgle," one brave soul spoke up, "And I speak as someone who made a deal to get extraordinarily good powers of persuasion..."

"You just have to make people see how much they have going for them," insisted Orgle earnestly, tickling Phlemgob under the chin. The little imp farted happily. "They are a lot smarter than they get credit for, they can be mostly housetrained, they don't smell _too_ bad provided you breathe mostly through your mouth, and they can also be quite affectionate, if you liked being presented with pieces dropped from the racks of the Pit as tokens of that affection..." The PR operatives remained silent.

"Oh, well," mused Orgle sadly, "It was worth a try. I'll just have some demons come to escort you to the Pit and assign you to your racks..."

"Perhaps if we did something about the, er, scent," one of the souls squawked desperately.

"The affection thing is good," nodded another one vigorously, "We could work with that, affectionate."

"The pieces-of-dead-flesh-as-presents thing, that might appeal to former cat lovers," suggested a third.

"Does this mean you'll take the job?" asked Orgle hopefully.

"Um, we'd, er, we'd love to manage your imp account, Mr Orgle," said one soul in a shaking voice.

"Excellent!" Orgle clapped some of his paws together. "I shall have someone show you to an office where you work on your campaign. You will be supplied with stationery and such things as you need. I believe your business also usually involves the consumption of a lot of alchohol?" All the souls nodded rapidly. "I shall see to that. Perhaps you can have some of Mr Crowley's, since he didn't seem to like it any more."

Another fiend came to escort Hell's new PR team to their new office, so Orgle went back to his paperwork. He had just turned back to the report from Engineering when the screen chirped and a small icon that usually wasn't there popped up on the screen. Carefully scanning the room to make absolutely sure that he was alone, he clicked on it. A messaging window popped up.

**FOUNTAINBOY:** _Hey, Sweetums, you there?_

Orgle typed a reply.

**SWEETUMS: **_Hello Fountainboy, just checking some reports. What's up?_

A new line of text appeared almost instantly.

**FOUNTAINBOY:** _I have some VIPs here who need access to one of your documents on our system. Could you convert it and rout it through the IDIOT-HERALD hub?_

* * *

Good grief, look at the length of this thing. That damned bunny is getting ridiculously loquacious. Or one of the Denizens has made some sort of deal for longer chapters...

Reviews are the Amusing Flits from the Angel Of Your Choice in the Computer Centre of Life!


	10. Chapter 10

A thousand grovelling apologies for taking a whole week to update. The household animals (two dogs, one husband) and RL have been driving me nuts, and in all the cacophony, the bunny clammed up. But I fed him some reviews and some Anzac bikkies (I can't make them as good as my grandmother's were, but they're all right) and little Clifford seems to be whispering again. To make it up to you, I shall make it a nice long one (as Dean said to the girl he had to stand up to deal with an angry spirit one time).

For the record, the Froodians are indeed hoopy froods, and they know exactly where their towels are.

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

Blemble put the small cluster of crystals on the mound of blue soil in the garden then sat back, sniffling. Gulli had been a beloved pet, had always been there since she was a broodling. Her Broodparents had explained that sometimes, when a pet was old and sick, there was nothing that the xenophysician could do to help. Her Broodfather had buried him in the garden two weeks ago, in his favourite spot, where he'd liked to sit and let the primary sun's light warm his ageing old exoskeleton on nice days. But she missed him...

"Dear Great Chemist," she whispered, as she had every day since her pet had departed, "Please look after Gulli for me. Broody says that all fleebs go to The Hive, and You'll look after him, so thank You for that. Make sure he has his chewy toy – Brooda buried it with him – so he doesn't chew on Your apparatus. Also, he has to go out straight after his dinner, or he makes messes inside. Although I suppose that You have already found that out. I hope that none of Your assistants had to clean up after him. Um. Anyway, thank You for taking Gulli to The Hive, and he's not supposed to get on the furniture so don't let him, amen."

_ding ding ding_

Blemble spun around, and gasped. A small winged being, glowing with pale light, held a jungar, the six-sided musical instrument associated with assistants from The Hive.

"Are... are you an assistant?" stuttered Blemble.

"I am an Angel of the... um, I mean, I am an Assistant of the Great Chemist," replied the small being, looking slightly flustered but radiating compassion nonetheless, "Come to tell you not to be too sad for too long." The assistant cocked her head, as if looking back at something or someone that Blemble couldn't see. "Oh, that's good, Gabriel says, sorry, Gambril the Catalyst says that Gulli hasn't made any messes since he arrived because there are pet doors if he needs them. I wouldn't worry about him, because there's this other, um, he's like a fleeb but with four legs, his name is Jimi, and he's much worse for chewing on things than Gulli ever was, and the Guardian of Companions sometimes says she'd cheerfully smite Dean Winchester herself just to get his dog off her hands... um," the assistant looked sheepish, then dinged on the jungar again. "So, don't worry about Gulli, and don't be sad, for he is beyond suffering and is happy in The Hive. Um." After a moment's thought, the assistant dinged the jungar some more, for good measure.

"Oh. Er. Thank you?" offered Blemble. The assistant smiled, and disappeared.

Blemble went back into the domicile feeling better, thinking that if an assistant had come with news of Gulli, he must be all right after all. She was going to tell her Broodparents about what she'd seen, but it just flew right out of her head when her Broodfather came home from Duty early and put a little just-pupated fleeb into her forearms...

"Well done, Lorimel," smiled Gabriel, as the little angel let out a nervous sigh of relief. "Blemble is much happier now. A little more practice with your speech, and a little less rambling perhaps – mortals always expect us to sound as pompous as their holy books suggest, and being awe-inspiring is part of our job description." The small fledglings nodded seriously, then began to chatter with excitement again. "So, who wants to go next?"

"Me! Me! I do! Me!" they clamoured, and Gabriel grinned again. Practice was all well and good, but for real on-the-job learning, you couldn't beat a practical lesson, so he'd taken then to Planet Frood in exchange for a promise that they'd all practise two major scales later. So far, his eager-if-not-yet-exactly-articulate-or-terribly-awe-inspiring charges had comforted two juveniles who'd lost pets, soothed a crying neonate, cheered up a sick juvenile, reassured a youngster whose parents were separating, and come to the aid of a young male who'd lost a favourite toy. (Endariel was only supposed to have offered consolation and empathy, but hadn't been able to help himself, and had joined the search and retrieved the lost item).

"I think perhaps it's Crowliel's turn," Gabriel decided.

"What?" Crowley snapped out of his funk of misery. "No! No! Absolutely not! I don't make soothing noises unto distressed kiddies, I make deals! Corruption, not compassion! This is not my thing!"

"It is now, little bro," Gabriel grinned infuriatingly. "You are one hundred percent unadulterated unalloyed angel, no artificial colourings or flavourings. You are a herald, a Messenger of Heaven. That means, you give people messages. Tidings of comfort and joy."

"I don't even like children," moaned Crowley. "Of any species."

"Not even boiled or fried?" Gabriel cocked an eyebrow.

"That's Duke Ganthery," snapped Crowley, "And he doesn't bother to cook them. Most of the time, he doesn't even bother to chew them. I had one, you know, a child; ungrateful turncoat little shit he was, too. Little bastard only died at sea to stop me from pissing on his grave, plus, he'd have known that it would mean that I could never enjoy fish and chips again..."

"Well, the tidings are not supposed to be for _your_ comfort or joy, so, suck it up," instructed Gabriel. "Now, look around, and see if you can find an unhappy child...

"Why are we going around manifesting unto kids, anyway?" demanded Crowley, perilously close to whining. "Most places on the planet I come from, there are laws against it. People who sneak up on kids are weirdos, criminals, or clergy."

"For the same reason you teach somebody to ride on an old, quiet, patient horse, before you send them off to break bucking broncos," answered Gabriel, "Because you are fledglings, and the innocent, uncorrupted faith of a child is a precious thing, a simple, pure and untainted thing, the epitome of unthinking love for our Father. Plus, at that age, they are less likely to think too hard about it or question who or what you are, and you do _not_ want to find yourself in that situation before you are ready to handle it. I know what I'm talking about; my last mission was the Enunciation of an impending Virgin Birth, on this very planet – to an emancipated and educated atheist. I don't think she believed me. I don't think she'll believe me even when she finds herself with an unexpected broodling; she'll probably just start writing another research paper. So, don't you complain to me about job satisfaction or ingratitude."

"But... but... " Crowley blushed. "I can't... I can barely fly, and I can't land! I won't be very awe-inspiring if I just crash out of the sky and fall in a heap! OW! OW! Bloody wings!"

"I'll help you with the landing," promised Gabriel, "You just find an unhappy child."

Muttering mutinously, Crowley turned back to the cobalt blue planet below them, and let his awareness roam, settling on the first candidate he located. "There," he indicated grumpily. "He's been picked on – again – by his classmates. Will he do?"

"Well, yes," began Gabriel, "Why don't you make sure that..."

"He's ground zero, then," Crowley cut him off.

"Very well," Gabriel nodded, "So, wings out, hold up your jungar, that's it. Now, what will you say?"

Crowley sighed deeply in a most put-upon fashion. "Do not despair _ding ding ding _for you are beloved of the Great Chemist, Who loves all children as His own. Their cruel games are but the passing quarrels of childhood _ding ding ding _and you shall grow beyond them, as the pupa sheds its case."

"You could try for a tone that's more 'compassionate celestial sympathiser' rather than 'sulking teenager who hates visiting Great Aunt Muriel'," suggested Gabriel, "But that will do. So, you ready, baby bro?"

"Oh, yes, just raring to go," sneered Crowley, as his fellow fledglings made noises of encouragement. "I'll just open my umbrella and Mary Poppins my way into his life shall Iiiiii-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" With a flick of his grace, Gabriel sent Heaven's most reluctant trainee herald to his first actual job.

**oooOOOoooOOOooo oooOOOoooOOOooo oooOOOoooOOOooo oooOOOoooOOOooo oooOOOoooOOOooo **

"Ah, here it is," announced Menariel as the screen beeped. "We've lost some of the formatting, but all the data should be here."

"Let's have a look," Sam peered at the text scrolling past. "Okay, we have... yes, this is it, Fergus McLeod... oh, that's interesting."

"What?" asked Bobby peering over his shoulder. "Oh. Oh. Well, aint that interesting."

"What is it?" demanded Dean, "Have you found something on Crowley? Some weakness in Hell? Some flaw in his power base?"

"Not exactly," grinned Bobby, "But it could be even better than that."

"What we appear to have found is, for want of a better word, his, uh, reports," relayed Sam.

"Reports?" echoed Dean. "Like, school reports?"

"From when he was a newly minted demon," confirmed Sam. "Here. 'This demon is depriving a village somewhere of its idiot. – Azazel.' 'It is disappointing to see that Crowley does not seem to be the least bit interested in developing his admittedly modest talent – his fastidiousness and constant complaints about dirtying his tie suggest that he will never amount to anything. – Alistair.' 'Crowley's habit of exorcising himself and any who happen to be around him when he wishes to leave a situation in which he finds himself bored is a blatant abuse of his knowledge of Latin. – Lilith.' There's more, too. 'Does not scheme well with others.' 'Is disruptive during rituals'. 'Since last review, this demon has hit rock bottom, and started to dig.' 'Works well when under constant supervision and cornered like a rat in a trap.' 'We can only hope that as a mortal he did not breed'. Not exactly an Advanced Placement candidate."

"Heh heh, sounds like Crowley was a late bloomer," chortled Bobby. "Well, they do say that it's the late developers you have to watch out for. After all, Einstein's professors said he'd never amount to anything, and his ideas led to humanity gainin' the ability to blow themselves out of existence a thousand times over."

"There's lists of the deals he's made, too," Sam went on, "As he progressed from Special Needs demon to King of the Crossroads... wow, he was busy."

"He's had three hundred years to perfect his schtick," shrugged Bobby, peering at the text scrolling past, "Well, slap my ass and call me Shirley, look at that..."

"Crowley made a deal with Donald Trump?" Sam did a double take.

"What?" Dean burst out. "That's impossible! He's still alive!"

"Oh, hang on," Sam scrolled down, "There's a note here... oh. A Hellhound has been sent to collect him a number of times, but each time, it comes back Downstairs, hacks up a huge hairball, and refuses to go back. They're still trying to work out how to collect him." He looked further down. "And, they're anticipating a similar problem in a few years' time with Justin Bieber... Hey, Barbara Cartland! Well, that would explain a lot."

"She lived to a ripe old age, though," Bobby pointed out, "What happened to her Hellhounds?"

"Uh, some sort of allergic reaction to the foundation she used," Sam read, "And blue eyeshadow toxicity... apparently their R&D department was looking into HazMat suits for them when she died."

They backtracked through the file. Crowley had improved with practice; not all his earlier attempts were successful.

"Deal offered to the Widow McFarlane, for the health of her last surviving child," read Sam. "Only, she doused him with holy water, and the kid got up from his sick bed and stabbed him in the leg with a rosary."

"Deal offered to Seth Richardson, farmer, for wealth, prosperity and a good marriage," read Bobby. "Unfortunately, it appears that Seth set his dogs on Crowley, and ruined a very good Italian linen suit. That appears to be about the time he started taking a Hellhound around with him."

"Private Willam McBride, in Flanders," noted Sam, "Offered a deal for survival and the hand of his sweetheart in marriage, but young Willie summoned the regiment's padre, who oversaw the loading of Crowley into one of their biggest guns, and they fired him at the Germans."

"Yeah?" grinned Dean. "What happened then?"

"Well, he thought he might as well try his luck with them, so he tried to make a deal with Landser Matthias Wilhelm, but apparently young Matti summoned his chaplain, who supervised the loading of Crowley into one of the largest artillery pieces they had, and he was fired back at the Brits..."

"Oh dear," smiled Dean.

"He was fired back and forth a number of times," Sam continued, "Until he landed in the French lines, where he was mistaken for a vampire, and pelted with garlic and what he describes as 'absolutely feral cheese'. Oh, he also lost another tie when one of them hammered a stake into him."

"Credit where it's due, though, to a guy who can learn from his mistakes," conceded Bobby.

Sam checked back and forth through the document. "There doesn't seem to be anything indicating a cause of, er, angelification here," he announced, "It's his Hellside record... hang on," he continued, "It looks as though there's another part to this file, an earlier part."

"That would be his life record, from when he was alive," Menariel explained. "But it won't be in HOLIER. If he went Downstairs, it would be in Hell's archive, where it may or may not have been transferred to DAMNATION yet. They're working backwards to upload older data, just like us."

"We are indeed working backwards through the hardcopy archives and transferring them to electronic format," St Peter explained, "If we had him here now, we could just take him to a check-in, and scan him, and see if any references to him come up. Although, I am intrigued to know how you know so much about the workings of Hell's archiving progress, Menariel," Heaven's Chief IT Officer frowned at the cherub.

"Um," said Menariel, looking flustered.

"Well, we gotta get His Reluctant Angelness back here, then," decided Bobby. "When his music lesson is done."

Menariel reached across Sam, and tapped at the keys. The screen returned to Crowliel's celestial record. "According to this, after their music lesson, Gabriel took the fledglings out on a field trip. A practical class... oh, dear, it seems that Crowliel is heading back to see the healers."

"Having trouble with his sprained wing?" enquired Bobby.

"Er, no, it's, er... what's a jungar?" asked Menariel.

"It's a small metal percussion instrument," St Peter replied, "Like a triangle, but it's actually a hexagon. It's from Planet Frood. The Froodians associate the jungar with the Great Chemist's Assistants, in much the same way that humans often depict Angels of the Lord as playing harps, or trumpets. Why do you ask?"

"Well," went on Menariel with a wince, "Apparently, Crowliel has one lodged up his nose."

**oooOOOoooOOOooo oooOOOoooOOOooo oooOOOoooOOOooo oooOOOoooOOOooo oooOOOoooOOOooo **

"Gentlemen!" Orgle was not happy about having to raise his voice, but the situation between Duke Erlioz and his younger brother over control of the family power base had deteriorated rapidly, and was now a shouting match in Lucifer's grand Throne Room. The consequences of such conflict in Hell found expression in unpredictable manifestations in the fabric of space-time-reality – the fall-out from their tit-for-tat assassination attempts included, so far, the implosion of one of Hell's Red Energy reactors (which had resulted in a call from the head engineer who had an accent so impenetrable that even his countryman Crowley had to concentrate to understand him), another outbreak of Ebola in Africa, the inspiration for a number of 'Twilight' spin-off proposals, and the announcement of a new reality show TV with the working title _America's Biggest Loser Survivors Got Big Brother's Queer Eye Talent._ "Gentlemen! Your Graces! Please, this quarrel between you is... unseemly! And Snotty the Chief Engineer says that it is affecting the power generation – he says he cannae have 'er back orrrrn line wi'oot a fool tearrrrr-doon." He paused. "I have no idea what that means, but it sounds very serious..."

"Who the hell are you?" demanded one seething noble.

"I am fiend Orgle," announced the Acting Monarch of Hell. "I am Mr Crowley's assistant, and I am temporarily standing in for him, in a temporary capacity, whilst he is on temporary absence about the business of Hell, temporarily. This arrangement is only temporary."

"It's true then," muttered Dame Ghazoria, another senior demon who was at any one time prepared to pounce on any perceived opportunity to seize influence or power. "The little worm is off the premises..." The room full of demonic nobles eyed Orgle warily.

On the one hand, he was just a fiend.

On the other hand, he was a fiend who had sent Dukes Ganthery and Belaal screaming and running (fairly awkwardly, what with their pants being around their knees) for cover and refusing to talk about what had happened. Any creature who could turn two of Hell's most senior and belligerent demons into quivering, gibbering wrecks was not to be taken lightly.

On the other other hand, nobody in their right mind would carelessly cross something that looked like that whilst apparently smiling...

Orgle took advantage of the moment. "I understand that you gentlemen have your disagreements from time to time," he began, "And I also understand that settling them is important. However, I must request that you do so in a manner that is less disruptive to the business of running Hell, which is, after all, our common Mission."

"Mission? Mission?" rumbled a member of the Hierarchy. "We have a mission?"

"Not just a mission, but a Mission," groaned another. "A Corporate Mission, and a Vision. Ignorance truly is bliss in this case – Crowley wasn't even halfway through the presentation when I wanted to crawl back onto the rack for some peace..."

"Ha! I know for a fact you did just that!" hissed a third, "While we all sat through that interminable 'Corporate Values And Common Goals' workshop, you were having your kidneys pulled out through your nose and being shown your own entrails, you slack and idle skiving individual!"

"You didn't!" gasped yet another. "How did you pull that off? Slouching around on a rack all afternoon while we had to brainstorm a Code Of Conduct and Key Indicators! You lazy bastard!"

"You can talk," sniped a demon behind him, "You slunk out during the Diabolical Co-operation seminar, and spent the entire time hiding in one of the lava lakes!"

Duke Erlioz was a senior member of the Hierarchy, and made of stern stuff. "If you are proposing that we try another 'Equity and Diversity Refresher Session'," he sneered, "I think you'll find that..."

"Oh, no," Orgle shook his head, "I don't think we should have any more meetings. People don't seem to like them. I'm not sure why, but, since people don't like them, we shouldn't have them, I don't think."

The demons in the room stared at him. "No meetings?" The idea ran around the room like a suggestion of early home time in the last class of the day.

"No meetings," confirmed Orgle, a little sadly. "Although I'll miss Asmodeus's PowerPoint animations."

"Well," continued Duke Erlioz, "How then do you suggest we settle this disagreement?"

"I have been thinking about that," Orgle brightened up, "If Your Graces will just give His Grace and His Grace some room..."

Murmuring in curiosity, the other demonic nobles cleared a large space around the warring brothers.

"Are you actually suggesting that we settle this in such a vulgar fashion as to resort to fisticuffs?" Duke Erlioz sniffed disdainfully.

"Oh no," Orgle reassured him, "I thought of a suggestion that I heard somebody Topside make about how two brothers could settle an argument. Use these."

He held out two handbags.

* * *

Reviews are the Handbags Of Vengeance Swung With Great Force At The Embuggerances Of Real Life!

(If need be, you may imagine the Winchester Of Your Choice holding your sweat towel whilst you wield that handbag. Possibly also a plate of cookies.)


	11. Chapter 11

It's working! Reviews make Clifford the plot bunny talkative!

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

"Please try to hold still, young one," said the venerable angel healer, letting no hint of her waning patience leak into her voice. "Now, let's try again, just tip your head back..."

"Ow! Ow! OWWWWWW!" yelped Crowley. "Ow! Dond't tdouch by dose!"

"Crowliel, I do not intend to hurt you!" huffed the healer.

"Udless itd's for by own good, I subbose," Crowley muttered sullenly.

"Brother Gabriel, will you please help young Crowliel to hold still so that I may treat him?" pleaded the healer.

"Hey, it's okay, little guy," soothed Gabriel, "A trip to the healer can be a bit scary. I know. I remember the first time I blew my trumpet in the Throne Room and shattered the windows in there. I got some glass in one of my wings..."

"I'be dot scared, I'be bissed off!" snapped Crowley.

"...I just about howled the place down. Lucifer had to hold me while Michael healed my wing. It worked, though. You want to sit on my lap?"

"Ged away frob be, you bervert!" yapped Crowley.

"You can have a lollipop afterwards if you're brave," wheedled Gabriel.

"I'll dell you where you cad shove your lollibob!" hissed Crowley, "Add I hobe it bakes you walk fuddyieeeeaaaargh! Stob id! Stob id!" Gabriel grabbed Crowley, and sat down with his newest brother in his lap. "Led be go! Led be goooooo! You sbug, aggravading arsehole, led be goooooo! Ow! Ow! Owwwwwww! Hey, thad's by dose, owwwwwww! Aaaaaaargh!"

Another small, wobbly little blue spark of smitelet drifted unsteadily towards Gabriel's nose. The Archangel blew gently on it, and it dissipated harmlessly.

"Oh, Dad, they're just adorable at this age!" he grinned, reaching up to pinch Crowley's cheek.

"I hade you," wailed Crowley, as the healer made another grab for his nose, "I hade you, so buch, owwwwwwww!"

"There we go," the healer brandished the small musical instrument triumphantly. "Hallelujah! All done, Crowliel! You were so brave, Father would be so proud of you!"

"Don't patronise me, you condescending cow," grumbled Crowley, extracting himself from Gabriel's embrace. "And if you ever try to sit me on your lap again, I will stuff a cheese grater backwards down my trousers, and wiggle."

"Ooooh, you kinky little devil," chuckled Gabriel. "Come along, Crowliel, your brothers and sisters are worried about you."

He led the way back to where the fledglings were practising with their harps, letting Crowley try to do his own flying. When they arrived – Gabriel landed, Crowley sprawled – the class once again dropped their harps and rushed to hug their little brother.

"Oh, Crowliel, are you all right?" asked one, sounding on the verge of tears.

"We were so worried about you!" confirmed another.

"You sounded as though you were suffering horribly!" commiserated one more.

"Oh, yes," agreed Crowley glumly, "Terrible, terrible suffering. And then, somebody shoved a jungar up my nose..."

The small angels made soothing noises of consolation. Crowley made whining noises of terrible, terrible suffering.

"We wrote a hymn for you, to pray for your recovery," announced a rosy-cheeked fledgling.

"Yes," nodded one beside him, "And we sang it to Father, to ask Him to speed your recovery."

"Oh, how nice," sighed Crowley in defeat.

"We will sing it for you now, to cheer you up!" declared the first fledgling, as they chattered in excitement and scrambled to pick up their harps.

It wasn't the most tuneful or finessed hymn that had ever been sung unto the Lord, since they'd only learned two scales, nor was it the most co-ordinated or structured. It started in two separate keys, ended in three, and the number between varied up to six, but the sentiment was clear.

_Oh praise unto our Father God, so ageless and so wise,  
__Please help our brother Crowliel, please hear our heartfelt cries,  
__Although he cannot play his harp, no matter how he tries,  
__And when he sets his wings to flight, he plummets from the skies,  
__And then complains about his suit, and damage to his ties.  
__Oh Father God, Who loves us all, and all our teardrops dries,  
__Please help our brother Crowliel, whose nose is like a vise  
__Clamped tight around a jungar, as the healer tries to prise  
__It out, shoved in there by a Frood whose stature small belies  
__A most amazing intellect, of quite enormous size  
__Which prompted him to grab it and give Crowliel surprise  
__For he believeth in You not – he thinks that it's all lies  
__Made up to soothe the ignorant, console him as he dies.  
__Oh Lord, we ask that Crowliel will fully healed arise,  
__Although his very angelness he constantly denies,  
__And honestly it might seem like that, every time he flies,  
__But we know that this is Your will, so none of that applies,  
__No matter how inept, he is an angel in Your eyes.  
__Aaaaaaaaaaaaamen._

The last pitch-challenged plunk died away a full tone and a half from the note sung by the majority of the fledglings. It was a performance worthy of any kindergarten nativity play rendition of 'Silent Night', scored for tuneless tots and shuffling feet, complete with the one kid who is always the most tone deaf but makes up for it by bellowing the most loudly, and another who forgot most of the words but compensated by bleating since he was dressed as a sheep anyway.

"Oh, isn't that wonderful?" enthused Gabriel. "That's very kind of you all. I'm sure that Crowliel feels better just knowing that you wrote a hymn especially for him!"

"Well, I certainly don't think it's possible to feel any worse," Crowley had to concede.

"Father would be so proud of you all," Gabriel smiled. He gestured to another small angel who had been standing behind him.

"Who the hell is that?" demanded Crowley.

"Oh, this? This is your big sister Naneriel," Gabriel told him, "She's a Flitter herald. Did you get that?" The herald nodded, and fluttered away, reproducing the song. "That was so adorable, I'm totally Flitting it."

There was a flap of wings and trench coat behind them, and Castiel manifested.

"Hello, Gabriel," he intoned. "Hello class."

"Hello Castiel!" the fledglings greeted their older brother.

"Hey, Cas!" chirped Gabriel. "How's the corner office treating you?"

Castiel cocked his head. "I don't understand that reference," he said seriously. "Gabriel, am I to understand that your youngest charge was injured during an extraterrestrial excursion?"

"It was a learning experience," Gabriel stated.

"Oh, yes, very educational," snarked Crowley. "I learned that Planet Frood has its very own pre-pubescent insufferable smartarses. No wonder the little sod was being bullied! 'I don't care, I am much more intelligent than all of them, so that when we mature, I shall be superior to them at Duty, and I will earn more and have a larger and better domicile and a prettier broodwife because I will have higher status, and I shall be in a position to push them around and make them sorry and they will regret the day they ever pulled my floopers'. What a vicious, scheming little bastard..."

"Remind you of anybody?" asked Gabriel innocently.

"What a deal I could've done for a mind that works like that before it's even grown up," mused Crowley mournfully, "I'd have offered twenty years, just to watch him spread the misery and despair. You might've warned me," he glared accusingly at Gabriel.

"What, that he was a budding sociopath after your own heart?" enquired the Archangel solictiously.

"No, that he was the younger brother of your emancipated educated Enunciated virgin atheist!" snapped Crowley. "He told me I was 'An antiquated symbol of a crowd control system of misandry, constructed in ancient times to oppress males and keep them restricted to subordinate sociological roles and silence them politically, whilst playing upon the ignorance of the masses to maintain the powerbase of a restricted religious oligarchy'. Seriously, we're talking Germaine Greer with balls and floopers, here! How the hell does a pre-teen even know words like that?"

Castiel frowned at Gabriel. "Was it really appropriate to allow a fledgling to approach such an individual?" he queried sternly.

"I did actually try to warn him," Gabriel defended himself, "Although Crowliel here was in such a rush to get to his distressed child, he didn't want to hear it. Anyway, bruises are educational."

"What about a displaced septum, then?" demanded Crowley, rubbing his nose, "Is that educational too?"

"Sure," Gabriel assured him, "From now on, you'll always keep a tight grip on your jungar."

"I am not happy with your supervision of our youngest brother," stated Castiel. "Crowliel, you come with me now. The Winchesters have requested your presence to assist in their investigations. In addition, I believe I may be able to assist you with your landings."

"You can't wrap 'em in cotton wool, Castiel," tutted Gabriel, "Sooner or later, they have to learn to fly with their own two wings."

"Nonetheless, Crowliel is... an exceptional case," Castiel replied.

"Oh, that makes me feel soooooo special," sneered Crowley. "Patronising prick."

"That's because you are," Castiel smiled, "You adorable assbutt."

**oooOOOoooOOOooo oooOOOoooOOOooo oooOOOoooOOOooo oooOOOoooOOOooo oooOOOoooOOOooo **

"The sheer amount of data to deal with just became overwhelming as the population increased and the influence of the Son's teachings spread," St Peter explained as they looked into the chilly room full of Heavenly computer banks. Jimi trotted up and down, eagerly sniffing along the rows of humming machines. "I knew by the mid-1800s that we weren't going to be able to cope for much longer using the ledgers. Some of the scribes might complain about the system, but really, we need it."

"Jimi!" called Dean, "Jimi, don't you pee on anything fella!"

"Wow," Sam was impressed. "So, you can do data retrieval from anywhere?"

"Don't touch that!" yelped Dean. "Don't touch anything! It'll start with games, and booking flights online, and end with a thermonuclear war!"

"Dean, I think you're being a bit melodramatic," Sam rolled his eyes, "It makes sense, with this much data coming in, to have a computer do the initial collation and analysis..."

"I don't like it," Dean declared, "It never ends well, letting computers run things. It starts with The Blue Danube, and ends with getting whooshed off into outer space by a psychotic AI! It starts with military research, and ends with naked guys from the future!"

"St Peter has already explained that the two systems are completely separate," Bobby reminded him, "There is no connectivity, they are two incompatible operating systems, and don't forget the irewall..."

"Don't talk to me about failsafes," snorted Dean. "I know how it goes, it starts with melting ice cream and ends with velociraptors!"

"You'll have to excuse my brother," Sam told St Peter, "Everything he knows about computers, he learned from movie re-runs."

"And I trust the damned things about as far as I'd trust Crowley," grumbled Dean.

A flap of trench coat and an alarmed howling alerted them to an incoming Sheriff and fledgling.

"See how much easier it is if you get your feet under you first?" explained Castiel. "Isn't that better?"

Crowley let out a small, sad noise that was part exasperation, part surrender, part resignation, and part desire for the Firmament to open up and swallow him.

"Ah, speak of the devil, and he shall appear," chuckled Bobby, taking in Crowley's mournful expression, "But now you're... God's tits, what the hell are those?"

"Er, are they what they look like?" asked Sam incredulously, staring down.

Dean smiled widely. "Cas, was that your idea? That is totally brilliant!"

"Considering the difficulty that Crowliel has been having, I prayed to our Father, seeking Revelation on how I might assist him," Castiel explained. "This is the idea that came to me."

St Peter cocked his head. "That's not something I've seen before," he commented. "What are they, exactly?"

"Training wheels," Crowley moaned in abject misery, "He fitted me with training wheels..."

"And they have helped your take-offs and landings considerably," noted Castiel, with another doting smile.

Dean grabbed his nose to do a radio voice. "Tower to Crowley, Tower to Crowley, you are cleared for landing on Runway Three, possible also Four and Five depending on how badly you screw up this time, do you copy, over _kshshshsh_!"

Crowley's bottom lip began to wibble.

"Why don't you show everybody what you learned on your harp," prompted Castiel, like a proud parent urging a small child to show the visitors how it was able to do something terribly advanced and grown up, like tip a spoonful of mashed peas down its own bib without any adult assistance whatsoever.

With an expression like a kicked spaniel, Crowley lifted his harp, and sadly plucked out a dysrhythmic but recognisable version of 'Row Row Row Your Boat'.

"Well, that's very... very..." Bobby made a strangled gurgling noise.

"Harpish," finished Sam, making a similar noise whilst Dean cleared his throat noisily.

"Now that you're here, we'd like to scan you," explained Menariel, "To see if there's any information about you in HOLIER."

"Oh, goody," noted Crowley with a breathy little laugh of the sort that usually presages a bout of screaming hysterics.

There was a sudden cheerful woofing behind them, and they turned to see Jimi Sr. leave off his inspection of Heaven's data banks and come galumphing towards them, making a beeline for Crowley.

"Just throw him a liver treat, Crowliel," Menariel said off-handedly, "That's what all the other heralds do."

"I haven't got any!" shrieked Crowley, his wings starting to flap in agitation. "Call your bloody dog off, Winchester! Aaaaaaaaaargh!" The flapping of his wings pushed him forward, and he began to roll along on his training wheels, gathering speed as he went.

"Now, remember what we talked about, Crowliel," instructed Castiel, as his fledgling brother whizzed past with Jimi in happy whuffing pursuit, "V1 is the maximum speed at which you can reverse your intention to take off..."

"Aaaaaaaaargh!" Crowley zoomed past back the other way, with Jimi chasing.

"...And V2 is the minimum speed at which you can lift off..." Castiel continued.

"Aaaaaaaargh!" Crowley made another yowling roll-by, gaining speed but not altitude.

"...And you should not retract your undercarriage until you have exceeded V2," Castiel intoned.

"AAAAAAAAAARGH!" Like a lumbering cargo plane running out of runway, Crowley rose uncertainly into the air, with Jimi woofing in excitement and nipping at his wheels. He managed to gain enough height to make it to the top of one computer bank, where he clung on and yowled unhappily.

"Cut it out, ya idjit," snapped Bobby, "I've heard cats chased up trees make less noise than that."

Castiel eventually persuaded Crowley to let go by hovering above him, grabbing him by the collar, and lowering him gently back to the floor. "Please control your dog whilst he is with you, Dean," the Sheriff of Heaven intoned sternly, "It is not surprising that Crowliel would be frightened by him – he is, after all, a very young angel."

"I don't want to be an angeeeeeeeel!" wailed Crowley, "I'm a deeeeeemoooooon! I don't belong heeeeeeeere! I'm so unhappeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

"Do not despair, little brother," Castiel reassured him, "You will adjust, with time. Look at Jimi Sr. – he was a Hellhound, and he is one of the happiest souls I have ever encountered." Hearing his name, Jimi trotted forward, sat, and offered a paw. Crowley shrieked, and darted behind Castiel.

"Maybe you could take baby bro somewhere else while we try to work this out," suggested Bobby, "Before we all go deaf."

"Just let me scan him," noted St Peter, waving a scanner at Crowley's forehead until it beeped, "Then maybe you can go and listen to the Choir practising. I always find that very soothing. They're rehearsing 'Holy Holy Holy', I believe... oh."

"Oh? Oh? What's oh?" asked Dean. "Oh as in, oh, it didn't work, or oh as in oh, there isn't anything there, or oh as in oh, that shouldn't have happened, or oh as in oh, it's about to explode and start a nuclear war with naked men and velociraptors?"

"I mean that there's actually something coming up," replied St Peter, "And not just cross-references to him, there is actually a file. His file. His life file, which shouldn't be here at all, if he went to Hell..." He frowned as he typed, whilst Menariel shuffled uncomfortably. "It shouldn't be here," he mused to himself, "It shouldn't... and it wasn't here. Until quite recently. According to this, it was entered into the system just a few of your weeks ago..."

"Could it be a mistake being uploaded from the archives, if you're working backwards?" asked Sam.

"No," St Peter answered, "This was uploaded as a zap file..."

"What's a zap file?" asked Dean.

"It's like a compressed format, for large data files," explained Menariel, "It squashes the file down small, for easier transmission, then you can zap it to somebody else. Or it arrives, and zaps your hard drive."

"Exactly," St Peter sounded suspicious. "We don't use zap files for archival transcription. This wasn't transcribed. This was sent." He tapped again. "With a text attachment, which reads as follows. 'Dear Fountainboy – boo! Love, Sweetums'."

"Er," went Menariel, blushing.

Heaven's gatekeeper bent a stern eye on Menariel. "Is there something you'd like to share with the rest of us, Menariel?" he growled at the information cherub. "Have you any ideas about how a demon's file ended up in the Celestial archive?"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Hello again!" chirped Orgle brightly, as the gaggle of PR agents clustered nervously at the end of the desk. "I am keen to see what you have done with the imps campaign!"

"Er, well," stuttered one of the sweating spin doctors nervously, "We have, er, that is, we, um, prepared a PowerPoint presentation..."

"Oh, no," Orgle waved a paw dismissively, "We don't use it any more. Everybody hated it, you know. From now on, if you have something to tell somebody, you just tell them. So, just tell me." He smiled brightly, then remembered only to do it with one mouth at a time as the terrified souls shrieked in horror. "Sorry. I'm very excited!"

"Er, okay, right, right." The shaking spokesman stepped back, and a nervous woman who was quaking in her expensive shoes took his place.

"What we have to do with imps is convince the market that they are not just something to be tolerated, but something to be desired," she explained, placing a box on the desk. "We have to get the customers not just to put up with them, but to want them. What we have to do is implement a collectivised aspirational vision regarding the uptake of the imp as a core acquisition, incentivise the target audience to realign and repurpose perceptions and take ownership of a shared commitment to engage in conspicuous consumption and status display of..."

A crackling bolt of lighting suddenly shot out of nowhere to hit the speaker. When the smoke cleared, she was gone, leaving only a smoking pair of singed Manolos.

Orgle sighed. "I did send everybody an email about the new Plain Language Only Program," he chided gently. "This was the first place I had it installed. It's been very popular. The imps and fiends have been handing out stickers, badges, balloons and caps, and chanting the slogan, to make sure everybody knows."

"Oh, yes, 'Don't spout confusing jargon shit, just talk PLOP!'," nodded one soul. "Have you ever worked in PR, Mr Orgle?"

"Not really," shrugged the fiend, "I just tell people about things they need to know about. What's in the box?"

"Oh, yes, right, well, er," the original spokesman hurriedly opened the box, "What she was trying to say was, er, well, the idea is to make people think, you know, imps aren't bad, imps are good, and, and, er, we want them to, uh, think, maybe, hey, um, everybody else is getting imps, so I want an imp, and we want them to think that their friends will all have imps, and we want them to think that having imps will make them feel included, and, and, uh, it's harder than it looks, isn't it, this PLOP thing..."

Without struggling for further clear expression, he reached into the box, and lifted something out.

A small ball of fuzz, with large eyes, a big smile, and a powder-blue bow perched on top of it, sat on the desk.

"Phlegmgob?" some of Orgle's mouths dropped open in astonishment. "Phlegmgob, is that you?"

"All we really did was give him a bath, and dunk him in deodorant," another shaking soul expounded. "We thought that your, er, contemporaries might like to carry them around in the handbags that they all seem to have now..."

Phlegmgob the made-over imp grinned up at Orgle, and waved. Orgle stared back, speechless.

"There is also a range of accessories on the drawing board," the quavering man went on, "Collars, leads, training treats, bows and jewellery, and a line of toiletries, shampoo, conditioner, detangler, scent, bloodstain remover..."

"Perhaps a chain of grooming salons," contributed another. "A franchise. 'Pimp My Imp'."

"We have, um, we have a campaign slogan," another soul announced, looking at the ceiling worriedly.

"Yes?" rumbled Orgle.

"Er, yes, we thought, we thought, er, 'An Imp Is For Life, Not Just For Kicking'." He let out a little scream, and dived under the desk.

The huddle of PR people cringed as Orgle pushed back his chair and stood to his full height, all his mouths opening to reveal their all ther teeth...

"Ladies and gentlemen," he boomed, "I LIKE it!"

* * *

Reviews are the Pimped Winchester Of Your Choice Smiling Up At You From The Desk Of Life! (I'll just be over there with the C754, which is a lot smaller than the C8000, but can still handle light production printing...)


	12. Chapter 12

Clifford the plot bunny has piped up again – he does love him some reviews... are you still there? *Clifford makes big doe eyes at the Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers and Casual Droppers-In*

Oh, yes, can I just clarify something; last chapter, I offered pimped Winchesters in exchange for reviews, not nekkid ones. Certain Denizens just assumed nekkid. In suits, yes, but not birthday ones. Big happy blue ribbon bows even, Sam's in his hair, Dean's around his neck (NOT anywhere else). What is it with you people and Gratuitous Winchester Nudity? Just leave them, come and look at this really cool document processor, it's got dual scanning up to 180 originals per minute, 1200 dpi printing, blank page removal, stapling and booklet function, and can handle a range of paper sizes and weights and finishing options...

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

"Menariel," St Peter began sternly, "Or should I call you 'Fountainboy'?" The catalogue cherub blushed and squirmed. "Would you care to explain who Sweetums is, and what he is doing sending you zap files from Hell?"

"He's, well, he's a friend," Menariel tried to explain, "I don't know exactly who he is, but..."

"You don't know exactly who he is?" echoed St Peter, his magnificent eyebrows drawing together most impressively like two annoyed elderly greying coypus conferring and his tone remarkably similar to that which Dean remembered his father once using to say 'So, you have no idea how that Play Doh ended up ground into the carpet?'. "Well, how about trying for _approximately_ who he is?"

"He's a friend who, er, well, he works in Hell," began Menariel (in much the same tone that Dean had used to tell his father that there may possibly have been some theoretical toy car involvement in the Play Doh thing), "And we've kind of been doing this thing..."

"What sort of thing, exactly?" went on Heaven's Senior IT Officer, those outraged eyebrows bristling like the lances of an invading army.

"He was trying to help!" yelped Menariel, "We've been trying to help each other! I mentioned to him once, during a D&D campaign, that we had..."

"You play Dungeons & Dragons?" Sam blinked in bemusment.

"Domiciles and Dentists," the cherub corrected. "It's a game where you pretend to be a human, and you have adventures on Earth! I'm a Level 18 Schoolboy, with Sarcasm 20, and my favourite spell is Atomic Wedgie..."

"If we could just leave off the adventurin', and get back to the explainin," suggested Bobby.

"Of course," Menariel subsided somewhat. "Well, I mentioned to Sweetums – he's a Level 19 Cheerleader, with Sarcasm 2 but Popularity 20, and he has the Pink Satiny Panties Of Invisibility, which is really useful when..."

"Could I just remind you at this point that some of us are, in fact, mortal, and can die of boredom," Bobby interrupted.

"Er, yes, yes. Well, I mentioned to Sweetums that the HERALDs had some worries about the system security, and he mentioned that the IDIOTs had the same worries about DAMNATION. The problem is, when you've put a system together, it's hard to look at it as an outsider and try to find the bugs. So, we've been helping each other out by looking for ways into each others' systems, then if we can get through, we notify each other of the problem so it can be fixed..."

"You've been backing," accused St Peter. "How many HERALDs and IDIOTs have backed into each other's databases, Menariel?"

"Only a few," the cherub reassured the old saint, "And we've plugged so many holes, they've been really helpful. Sweetums really knows his stuff." He gestured to the screen. "This must be one we hadn't found yet."

"He sure does if he can get to Crowley's file," confirmed Bobby, "I got a feeling that Crowley would've done the equivalent of digging a very large hole and taking a dump on it before burying it so deep that worms would never find it."

"Well, it's active in the system now," sighed St Peter, "So we might as well use it to learn what we can." He scanned through the file. "That's interesting," he mused, "He has a very high Redemption Coefficent. That shouldn't be possible for a soul that went to Hell... good grief, it just went up again..." He brought up a graph that showed a trend of increase, creeping upwards as they watched.

Sam peered at the screen. "It's growing exponentially," he mused, "But what does this mean?"

"A soul's Redemption Coefficient indicates how, well, Heavenworthy it is," St Peter explained. "It takes many things into consideration: sins committed, sins confessed and amends made, good deeds, decency of thought and act, virtues practised, selfless conduct; you can think of it as a measure of the goodness and virtuousness of the life lived. It scares the hell, if you'll pardon my language, out of a lot of basically decent atheists when they get here. They end up feeling like right Charlies, I can tell you..."

"Crowley was an asshole long before he was a demon," Bobby pointed out. "And that number just went up again. How can it be going up if he aint livin' his life any more?"

"It's a very complicated equation, with multiple subroutines," St Peter muttered, tapping at the keys, "Maybe if we can see... there! It's the Indulgence Factor. That's a measure of the external influences on Redemption. Actions taken by others, distinct from the individual."

"What, like papal indulgences?" asked Sam. "Prayers for the souls of the dead?"

"That's usually it," St Peter agreed, "Since we have his file, we can check the raw data... "

Another document opened up, one that looked like a complicated public transport system map.

"What is that?" asked Dean. "It looks like one of those stupid 'My Family' stickers that seaweed might put on the rear window if it drove a car."

"It's a family tree," replied Bobby, understanding dawning. "It's eleven generations of the family McLeod. Eleven contraceptive-free Catholic generations. All descended from one Fergus Roderick McLeod. Currently known as Crowliel." He peered in at the screen again. "And accordin' to this, the ones alive today are all still prayin' for their revered ancestor Granda Fergus."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

There is music in Heaven. How could there not be? Anyone who has ever been moved, inspired, cheered, uplifted or just thoroughly entertained by their favourite genre could surely not conceive of Eternal Contentment After Death without it. There will be all sorts of music in Heaven. There will be recitals of Rachmaninov, there will be performances of Puccini, there will be punk and piano and piccolo, there will be harp and hip-hop and hand-clapping, there will be duduk and didgeridoo and drums and double bass, there will be rapping bull rings and smoky little jazz nooks and old time gospel choirs and techno raves and eventually Metallica gigs (Heaven has a bass player so far, but the other three have delayed proceedings somewhat by reforming their boozing drug-taking ways as they've gotten older, but metal-heads can always go along to see Ronnie James Dio, whose voice still soars as high as his ego, when he's not lurking on clouds trying to piss on Vivian Campbell).

One day, there may even be The Stooges, The Rolling Stones, and Motorhead, although the current consensus amongst the IT angels when they discuss such things is that if Iggy Pop, Keith Richards and Lemmy Kilmister aren't dead yet, given the lives they've led, it may not actually be possible for them to die.

Since humans are said to have arisen in the image of their Creator, it's no great stretch to suppose that He must like music too.

And if the Choir of the Throne Room is anything to go by, we can infer that, just like KISS, He loves it loud...

_Holy Holy Holy, Is the Lord of Hosts, The Heavens and all the Earth are filled with His Glory  
__Holy Holy Holy, Is the Lord of Hosts, The Heavens and all the Earth are filled with His Glory  
__Holy Holy Holy, Is the Lord of Hosts, The Heavens and all the Earth are filled with His Glory  
__Holy Holy Holy, Is the Lord of Hosts, The Heavens and all the Earth are filled with His Glory..._

"Jesus suffering fuck," muttered Crowley, glaring at Castiel, who stood apparently mesmerised by the celestial beauty of the Choir's song. "If this is supposed to be soothing, I'd hate to see your interpretation of annoying. We've been here for an hour at least! How long have they been at it?"

"Since a time before time, when our Father created the Heavens," replied Castiel, clearly rapt by what he was listening to.

"Well, that would certainly explain why Daddy Dearest cleared off, if you ask me," commented Crowley. "I wouldn't have lasted for the first hundred years."

"The Seraphim are the highest Choir of angels, caretakers of Father's throne," Castiel explained.

"And very effective they are too – there's little chance of anyone braving that racket to try to steal it," Crowley conceded.

"It is their role to make a cheerful noise unto our Father, continually and joyfully singing His praises," Castiel added.

"Blessed are the masochistic, for they shall be called the Ears Of God," the Almighty's youngest angel grumbled. "Aaaaaaargh! I can feel it burrowing into my brain. I'll be humming it for a fortnight, now. It's worse than the Macarena. It's worse than Mmmmm-bop! Seriously, in all this time, hasn't anybody ever tried to teach them a new song?"

"They do sing something different at Christmas," nodded his big brother. "They sing 'Happy Birthday' to the Son. And after Lucifer Fell, they did sing rather a nasty chant." He cocked his head in recollection.

"_Ohhhhhhh, you've been Cast Out, Morningstar, doo dah, doo dah,  
__You are banished, yes you are, oh, dee doo dah day.  
__Down to Hell you go,  
__Ho de ho ho ho,  
__You've been thrown from Father's sight, we hope that's where you stay._"  
He paused. "I suspect that Michael may have put them up to it; he is, after all, technically, the most senior Seraph."

"I find it vaguely reassuring," mused Crowley, "That somewhere here, in Stepford-On-Clouds, in this pathologically loving and forgiving family, there has existed at some point somebody who was capable of an old-fashioned sibling rivalry punch-up. All this brotherly love, compassion and understanding, it's not normal! It can't possibly be healthy! I think it would be very therapeutic for everybody Up Here if you could declare a Pull Other Angels' Wings Day, or even Halo Hitting Hour."

Castiel frowned. "I do not understand," he intoned, "I love all of my brothers and sisters. I would derive no satisfaction at all from hurting them. It would distress me to see any of them hurt."

"You see? You see?" Crowley burst out. "That's what I'm talking about! That's why I can't be an angel! That's why I don't belong here! Everything, everybody is too _nice_! It's unnatural, and it's boring, and there's no scheming to do and there's no fun to be had and it's utterly utterly demoralising and completely depressing and _**WILL YOU LOT JUST SHUT UP FOR ONE FUCKING MINUTE!**_"

The highest Choir came to a sudden halt as the Firmament rumbled ominously, their choir stalls shuddered, and the miles-high stained glass windows rattled, a few small pieces of ethereal glass dropping from the panes beyond sight. A stunned cherub fell from the air and was deftly caught by a Seraph. The guardians of God's Celestial Throne, the most senior angels below the Archangels, stared in astonishment at their fledgling herald brother.

"That was..." Castiel stared at him in disbelief and shock.

"Rude? Disruptive? Thoughtless? Arrogant?" grinned Crowley, smiling for the first time since he'd suddenly sprouted wings that wouldn't stop beating him up. "Disrespectful? Selfish? Just plain old Evil, with a capital eev?"

"That was... amazing," Castiel breathed, wonder on his face. "You are barely fledged, and yet your True Voice has such power, it is truly wondrous, little brother. Clearly, you are destined for great works. You will be one of Father's most valued Heralds."

"What?" Crowley's face fell, as Castiel's broke into a smile. "You can't be _urk_!"

Castiel grabbed Crowley in a hug. "I am so happy for you, Crowliel," he whispered, "You are a very special angel; our Father must have important work in mind for you. One day, you will make Him so very proud."

Crowley's eyes bugged, and he caught sight of the Seraphim. They were watching him, not with snarls of outrage, but with faces full of love and wonderment, as though they were doting relatives watching adoringly as a toddler, whose peers were struggling with 'Baa Baa Black Sheep', had stood up and sung an aria from one of Mozart's more technically difficult operas.

"The youngest of our Father's children may His greatest joy fulfil," pronounced a clear, resonant mezzo voice amongst the Choir. Beaming, the rest of the Choir took it up in their glorious, unearthly song of indescribable uplifting beauty, dedicated to praising the wonder of their Father's works.

_The youngest of our Father's children may His greatest joy fulfil,  
__The youngest of our Father's children may His greatest joy fulfil,  
__The youngest of our Father's children may His greatest joy fulfil,  
__The youngest of our Father's children may His greatest joy fulfil..._

The space was filled with such an overwhelming ambiance of love, support and happiness that he just existed, Crowley couldn't decide whether he wanted to scream, hit somebody, or throw up.

He settled on bursting into tears of utter despair.

Castiel cocked his head; Dean would've said that he was tuning in to Radio Angel. "Menariel informs me that they have identified the probable cause of your transformation, little brother," he informed Crowley.

"Have they worked out how to fix it?" sniffled Crowley.

"He did not say," replied Castiel, "But rest assured, I shall have them arrange matters so that nobody can ever take you away from your family."

Castiel was an Angel of the Lord, a Warrior of Heaven; as such, he was not by nature given to a deep understanding of the emotions of those who were, or had been, human. But his time with the Winchesters had allowed him some insights, and he found himself moved by the emotion pouring from Crowliel – his youngest brother was clearly so overwhelmed by the joy of becoming an angel that his howling competed with the Choir. Taking his baby sibling's arm, and murmuring, "Do not concern yourself, Crowliel – I gotcha, baby bro," he headed them back to the Heavenly computer centre.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"These cookies are terribly sinful, Senior Librarian Verael," commented Orgle politely.

"They are, aren't they," agreed the dignified Fallen ex-angel. She turned and offered a decadent chocolate-coated cookie to Jimi, then one to Gedda, and the dogs took them gently. "Which is the point, really."

"Of course." The fiend sipped carefully at his tea, claws meticulously cradling the bone china cup. "How is the new document processor working out, Senior Librarian?"

"Oh, it is wonderful!" Verael replied, "I really cannot thank you enough, Orgle. I have been remonstrating with Crowley for some time now, regarding the copying equipment. It is in desperate need of upgrading, but every time I send him a reminder, he finds a reason not to meet with me, and sends me a message full of excuses. Look, this is the last one," she took a piece of paper from a tray on her desk, and placed it on the blotter. "The language, Orgle! 'Not aligned with the fiscally optimised corporate benchmarked values of synergistic enterprise management of the viable shared commitment to the aspirational vision of Hell's core business', what does that even mean, Orgle?" As she spoke, a small bolt of lightning, apparently originating from somewhere near the ceiling, snaked down and zapped the paper, setting it alight. "Oh, I am so grateful for your PLOP," she sighed, "It has made my job just that little bit easier."

"It wasn't actually my idea," corrected Orgle, "It came out of the Suggestion Box. I just passed it on to R&D and had them design it."

"The Suggestion Box?" frowned Hell's Senior Librarian. "Didn't Crowley make a Topside excursion for the express purpose of hurling it into the crater of an active volcano?"

"I got another one," explained Orgle. "There have been some really good submissions, too. For example, one of the younger demons suggested that we could use less Red Energy from the furnaces if we utilised a certain proportion of geothermal energy to heat the red hot pokers. Another suggested that we could just drop damned souls straight into the lava pits, without diverting energy for heating oil to boiling point to achieve the same thing. Plus, there was a really detailed design for a rack made entirely from recycled bones, a renewable resource. I don't know why Mr Crowley ever got rid of the Suggestions Box."

"I think it might have been the fact that the only messages he ever got in it were suggestions that he perform a vulgar biological function upon himself with a sharpened object," Verael told him. As she spoke, a small fluffy blob wearing a diamante collar climbed up onto the desk, chittering excitedly.

"Oh, you have an imp!" exclaimed Orgle, all his mouths smiling, "How wonderful!"

"This is Hellraiser Burgundy Bloodmaw," Verael informed him, scratching the little thing under what was probably its chin under all the fluff, "His pit-name is Bluebell."

"Hello, Bluebell!" enthused Orgle. Bluebell, recognising an imp person when he saw one, scampered across to the fiend and farted a greeting. "What a handsome fellow you are!" Jimi's nose appeared at the desk top, sniffing carefully. He whuffed, then gently picked up the imp, and settled down with Bluebell between his front paws, and began to wash him carefully.

"In fact, there was another matter I wished to raise with you," Verael beamed at her pet, "Concerning the imps. Since you were the one who brought them to our attention, the organising committee asked me to ask you: would you be willing to be the official opener of the Inaugural Hellside Imp Show?"

All of Orgle's mouths fell open in astonishment, then smiled widely. "Senior Librarian, it would be an honour and a pleasure!" he boomed happily.

* * *

Hey, I've just had an idea: we'll get the Winchester Of Your Choice to roll around on the scanner of the C754, then I can cackle over the whole document processing fetish thing, and a happy by-product will be the production of some glossy magazines of squirming Winchesters for you lot.

So, Reviews are the Glossy Magazine Of The Squirming Winchester Of Your Choice on the Coffee Table of Life!*

*If you insist on having nekkid Winchesters, wipe down the glass on the scanner with alcohol spray when you've finished, thank you very much, you depraved individuals...


	13. Chapter 13

'You write like Terry Pratchett'

O_O *bursts into tears of happiness* Is there any greater compliment a writer can be paid?

I think this story takes place sometime after 'The Consultant', but it doesn't really matter, since Dean isn't going to be reprising his stint as Acting Cupid. I don't think Sam could handle any more nude poker games.

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

When Castiel re-appeared with Crowley, it occurred to Dean that he had seen the ex-King of Hell's expression somewhere before: he had seen it on the faces of both Jimi Senior and Jimi Junior when they were required to bathe, or when they were told that there was no bacon. It was an expression that spoke of heartache, suffering, bottomless despair and inconsolable unhappiness. It was an expression that left him in no doubt that he was looking at The Saddest Angel In The World.

"What's wrong with him?" Dean jerked a thumb at the sniffling Saddest Angel In The World.

"He is overcome by the joy of joining the Host, and of hearing the Choir sing his welcome," Castiel informed them, beaming indulgently at Crowley, who looked as if he was about to throw back his head and howl in anguish.

"Bobby," Crowley's voice was desolate, "Bobby, love, tell me you've found out what terrible catastrophe happened to inflict this awful situation upon me. Tell me whom I have to kill to make it stop..."

"It's really as a result of a series of extremely unlikely events," St Peter began an explanation, "So unlikely that nobody would ever have thought to wonder 'what if?'. You see here," he gestured to the screen, "You have an extended family of descendants who are mostly still sincerely praying for your soul. The young lady with whom he dallied was a particularly generous and devout person; she passed that generosity of spirit and humility on to her children, and they passed it to theirs, and so on. That alone is a very rare occurrence."

"Why anybody would venerate you and pray for you, is anybody's guess," said Dean snidely. "I thought that sort of thing was reserved for saints."

"Don't look at me," retorted Crowley, "I have no idea why anybody would venerate me – I don't even remember which one she was!"

"St Crowley, patron saint of total assholes," mused Bobby. "You'd have a large constituency, if nothing else."

"Now, that shouldn't have made any difference," St Peter continued, "Since you made a deal and went to Hell. However, your file is in our system, and active – another extremely unlikely occurrence."

"What?" yelped Crowley. "How the fuck did that happen?"

"I could've told you," Dean contributed, "I could've told you, it starts with somebody shutting off the electric fence, and before you know it, the ice-cream is melting, the _T. rex_ has escaped, the velociraptors are eating the game warden and the demon's files are where they shouldn't be..."

"Lunatic allusions to movies aside," Bobby glared at Dean, "This coincided with Heaven's Archives being uploaded from the ledgers to digital format, working backwards. The IT cherubs just happen to have hit the late 1600s and early 1700s. So, the details of your lady friend, and your most immediate descendants, were coded into the database. That was just enough to get the value of your Redemption Coefficient over the line."

"Over the line for what?" demanded Crowley.

"To Redeem you, idjit," Bobby rolled his eyes, "Only, you weren't in Purgatory, you were in Hell."

"Maybe if you'd been a soul in Hell, it would've defaulted to leave you there," St Peter went on, "But you weren't a soul, not anymore – you were a demon. No longer human, and therefore not technically Redeemable. So, the system converted you to a format it could handle."

"It... what?" Crowley squeaked.

"It turned you from an Infernal ASCII file to a Celestial pdf," offered Sam.

"It converted you from a demon to the nearest Heavenly equivalent, a baby angel," translated Castiel with a small smile.

"It's remarkable, really," Menariel said, "If you'd have suggested this scenario to me, I'd have said, it was so ridiculously unlikely that such a string of extremely improbable events would occur, it isn't even worth spending time working up a patch for such a contingency."

"The most interesting thing is the way that HOLIER didn't crash," St Peter warmed to the theme like any nerd whose favourite electronic platform has just done something really interesting, like making Lara Croft tear off all her clothing and pole-dance instead of picking up the uzi ammo, "It actually found a solution, for which it had never been programmed, to a dilemma with which it was faced."

"This is bad, this is very bad," warned Dean, "It starts with turning demons into angels, next it will be shooting cherubs off into outer space, then one day you'll want it to do something, like "Rotate the Earth, please, HOLIER", and it'll be like, "I'm sorry, Pete, I'm afraid I can't do that," and you'll have to pull its circuits out while it sings to you..."

"Interesting? Interesting?" Crowley's voice took on undertones of shrillness. "Your stupid angels uploaded my stupid descendants into your stupid computer system and its stupid programming caused it to, to, to, convert me, to _pervert_ me, into an angel, and all you can say is 'Ooooh, isn't that _interesting_?'?-!"

"It is beyond interesting, it is miraculous," beamed Castiel. "Truly, our Father works in mysterious ways."

"Shut up!" gibbered Crowley, "Stop saying that! He's not my father, because I'm not an angel! I'm not! I'm not! I'm a demon, you hear me? I'm a bloody demon!"

Castiel looked utterly bemused and hurt by the abuse for a moment, before understanding dawned on his face. "I believe I now understand what the problem is," he nodded seriously.

"I'm a demon!" Crowley ranted, "I'm the King of the Crossroads, I'm the King of Hell, I'm an evil, scheming, ruthless, vicious, completely immoral, manipulative, lying, conniving utter bastard, and, and, and... you do?" he finished plaintively, a tiny spark of hope flaring in his expression as Castiel's remark finally made its way through his outrage.

"Indeed," Castiel nodded. "It is because you are not by origin an angel. You are a demon."

"Yes! Yes!" Crowley punched the air in triumph. "Rainman gets it! He finally gets it! Oh, I'd play a fanfare on my harp if I didn't think it'd make me throw up..."

"Who was once a human." Castiel smiled gently. "And who has now been 'adopted' into a new family. It is quite common for adopted human children to experience confusion, stress and some anxiety about their family situation when they are old enough to understand the concept of, and differences between, 'natural' and 'adoptive' families. I have been remiss as your big brother in not realising just how difficult this has been for you." He fixed Crowley with the Eye Sex Stare Of Compassion. "We may not be your 'natural' family, Crowliel, but the Host is now your 'real' family, and we will accordingly treat you with the love and understanding that you will require to come to accept this. We shall redouble our efforts to make you feel cared for and secure in your new home."

"Because an ex-demon is for life, not just for Christmas," pronounced Dean with a huge grin.

Crowley's face fell as brief hope faded and died. "You... you... you... prick!"

"I love you baby brother, you assbutt," smiled Castiel fondly.

"You... you... you... aaaaaaaaaaaaargh!" With a yodel of inarticulate horror and rage, Crowley hefted his harp above his head, charged at the nearest computer bank, and started to attack it.

"Oh, dear," sighed St Peter, "He wouldn't be the first angel who was not completely happy about moving from the ledgers to electronic format." He watched Crowley's assault on the computer with a certain resignation. "But he's certainly the most vigorous."

"Crowliel, cease this unseemly tantrum at once," instructed Castiel in a firm but caring voice. "That is no way to treat a musical instrument – you may damage the varnish on your harp."

"Bollocks to this harp, bollocks to its varnish, and bollocks to the camel it rode in on!" screeched Crowley, redoubling his efforts so that the clunking whacks were accompanied by the occasional twang. "I'm going to give this thing a reprogramming it'll never forget!"

"Er, Crowley, you do realise that you can't exactly torture a computer?" Sam pointed out.

"Sure you can!" snarled Crowley, still whacking away, "I'm gunna spill heavily sugared tea on its keyboard! _bang_ I'm gunna feed its mouse to a cat! _bangtwang_ I'm gunna make it run OS2! _bangtwong _I'm gunna feed it nothing but COBOL! _twingtwangbang_ I'll load it up with every episode ofJersey Shore, Barney and Friends, and Here Comes Honey BooBoo! _whacktwanggggg _I'll make it eat its own circuits and before I am done _it will beg for reformatting!_"

"You know, Cas, you shouldn't let toddlers have energy drinks," cautioned Dean, "I learned that the hard way. I gave Sam some Jolt cola once – the little bitch wanted to play Dino Demolition Derby until four in the morning..."

"That is enough, Crowliel," Castiel went on in the same patient tone, stepping in to remove the blunt instrument from his youngest sibling's angry grasp.

"Sod off, you feathery fucker!" yowled Crowley. A small blue globe of gently crackling proto-smite wafted in Castiel's direction, to fizzle quietly against him before damply dissipating.

Castiel looked down, and kept smiling. "My tie definitely has a warm spot," he told Crowley, "Well done, Crowliel, you are making progress."

"But... but... but..." Crowley's eyes bugged, moving in desperate trapped circles, then he flung himself at Bobby and sobbed heartbrokenly.

"Save me, Bobby," he wailed between gasping heaves, "Get me out of here, I want to go hoooooooome..."

"God's tits!" barked Bobby, startled to find himself with a wailing fledgling angel clinging to him. "Oh, knock it off, ya idjit," he gruffed, reluctantly patting Crowley on the shoulder.

"How do you know you're not still in Hell?" queried Dean brightly. Crowley paused in his unrelenting wailing, and blinked at him, bemused. "You know, how do you know this isn't Hell? You are a demon derived from a Damned soul, after all. Maybe this is all part of Hell for you. Maybe God has decided to do a bit of redecorating, and shuffled things around a bit, and he looked at you, and went, 'Hmmmmm, what could I do to make that little worm Crowley really unhappy? I know, I'll get him stuck in a delusion that he's been turned into an angel, that'll really mess with his head, wow, sometimes I scare Myself, My ideas are so brilliant, but then I'm God, of course,' and so you're still actually in Hell, but you're going to be trapped in this nightmare for ever and ever amen." He smiled winningly.

Crowley burst into even louder sobs, and clung to Bobby even tighter.

"Well done, idjit," Bobby griped, gingerly patting The Saddest Angel In The World on the shoulder again, "As if he wasn't already loud enough."

Sam looked thoughtful. "You know, seeing him like this, I could almost theoretically postulate maybe feel perhaps just potentially a very small bit sorry for him." He paused. "No, actually, scratch that, I don't, I just wish he'd shut up and suffer quietly."

"I'll go with that," agreed Dean chirpily, "So why don't you fly away and be miserable somewhere else, Crowliel? Just spread those wings, those great big beautiful angel wings that are a part of you for eternity, and flutter off somewhere to practise your harp and your landings, or crashing, we don't care if you crash, and learn aaaaaaaall about being a good little Angel of the Lord, a Herald of Heaven, one of God's special angels, or Special Needs angels at least, until you are ready to spend the rest of forever going about the Lord's works..."

It didn't seem possible, but Hurricane Crowley's gusts of tears ramped up to Force Nine.

"Torturin' a demon-turned-angel isn't very sportin', Dean," Bobby frowned.

"Maybe not," beamed Dean, "But it's fun."

"Well, much as I hate to interrupt your amusement, we gotta do something," Bobby said with a certain amount of resignation. "We gotta return the King of Hell here to his throne. Or his bidet, at least, before Downstairs turns into a total clusterfuck and starts to spill over into Topside reality. Come on, dry your tears and grow a pair, Your Majesty," he commanded the damp fledgling, "We'll find a way to sort this out."

"You will?" sniffled Crowley in a wobbly little voice.

"Unfortunately, yes," Bobby told him.

"I guess the most obvious thing to do is to delete his file from HOLIER," suggested Sam.

"That probably isn't possible," St Peter pointed out.

"Sure it is," Dean countered dismissively, "You just click it, and drag it to the little trash bucket thing. That's what Sam does with all my really interesting stuff," he added reproachfully.

"There's more to it than that," Sam told him, "That just removes it from the directory – the file is still there, and can still be found, if you know how to look for it. It isn't actually 'gone' as such until it's been written over enough times that there isn't enough of it left to hang together. The only way to be really sure is to reformat the drive it's stored on."

"We can't do that," Menariel said promptly, "We'd have to uninstall HOLIER, and reboot the system. Even then, we'd have to reinstall from the back-up, and it'll be there."

"It's never that simple," St Peter shook his head, "The nature of data is that, once it's out there, in practical terms, it's out there forever. Humans who are careless about the sorts of things they post online have found that out the hard way."

"You mean... my stuff is probably still floating around somewhere in cyberspace, even after Francis here deleted the files?" asked Dean.

"In all probability," confirmed St Peter.

"So, somewhere out there, on the internet, my picture of those gymnast twins from Colorado Springs still exists?"

"If it hasn't set fire to a server somewhere," grumped Sam.

"And the ones of that girl in Minneapolis, with the ping pong balls, that's still out there too?"

"Probably. Unfortunately," answered Sam snippily. "God, that's a screen-saver that's burned into my retinas until the day I die..."

"And the one of that girl in Portland, with the tattoos, so it looked like there was this dragon coming out of her..."

"I have no doubt that it's on an unsavoury tattoo appreciating site somewhere," winced Sam.

"And the ones of my afternoon in Nevada, with that girl calling herself Mistress Amanda..."

"Dean!" yapped Sam, with a double strength Bitchface #6™ (I SO Do NOT Want To Hear The Gory Details Of One Of Your Sexual Conquests, Jerk), Shut! Up! Jerk!"

"Okay, so, deletin' the file is a no-go," Bobby shut down the bickering with the ease of much practice. "What other ways are there to de-angelify an angel?"

"Cut off their wings," suggested Dean, drawing his knife.

"There is no evidence that such removal of an angel's wings would render that angel in any way less angelic," stated Castiel.

"Maybe not," Dean's smile was feral, "But think of the fun I could have finding out if it does."

Crowley let out a horrified little squeak, and scooted behind Bobby.

"Very occasionally, an angel will deliberately Fall, by tearing out their own Grace," Menariel reminded them in a sad voice. "Some of my siblings have done it. It is very sad, and the Host mourns their departure."

"That won't turn him back into a demon, though," Bobby pointed out, "It'll just turn him into a human. Although I suppose if he was prepared to be patient, that might work," he mused, thinking aloud, "He'd be born, and grow up, and presumably he'd be just as much of an asshole second time around, and even if he didn't make a crossroads deal, he'd probably be such an asshat that he'd end up goin' Downstairs anyway..."

"Hey!" Crowley found his voice, "I'm not going through the whole be-born-live-get-Damned-die-get-tortured-until-I-turn-into-a-demon-then-claw-my-way-to-the-top-of-the-heap-over-the-broken-bodies-of-my-would-be-rivals again! It took forever! AND, I'll remind you, the path to demonification is no walk in the park. It hurts. I know what my kidneys look like already, I had them shown to me on a number of occasions, and I have no wish to renew my acquaintance with them, or any of my other internal organs, thank you so very much."

"Lucifer Fell, but remained an angel," Sam suddenly interjected.

"His situation was different," clarified Castiel, "Lucifer was involuntarily Cast Out by Father, for rebelling against the rightful authority of His reign in Heaven, and for fighting incessantly with his brother Michael, Father's General."

There was a brief silence as Crowley's features went from thoughtful, to sly, to smug. "So, rebelling against the rightful authority of Heaven got him thrown out, and banished to Hell?" he asked casually.

"Yes," confirmed Castiel. "Father was most vexed with Lucifer's attitude and conduct."

"I'll bet," Crowley smiled cheerfully, "And, this is just me checking my facts, you are, are you not, Castiel, for want of a better expression, um, our, er, Father's representative in his absence?"

"I have assumed that role," Castiel nodded solemnly, "With Father's approval, until such time as He returns to reign in Glory once more."

"Right, right," Crowley nodded vigorously, "So, technically, and this is only theoretical, technically, if I rebelled against you, it would be the same thing as when Lucifer rebelled against, er, Father?"

"Well, technically, yes," Castiel agreed, "The situation would be completely analogous..."

Before he could get any further, Crowley flew at him, wings thrashing and fist flailing. "I hate you!' he yelled. "I hate you! I hate you! I disagree with everything you say! I'm not going to do any more flying practice! I'm not going to any more music lessons! I'm going to sit on a cloud and throw rocks at kittens! I'm going to sneak up on cherubs and pull their wings until they cry! I'm going to heckle the Choir, and break the windows, then I'm going to piss on dear old Dad's throne! And, I'm going to take my training wheels off BEFORE YOU SAY I CAN!" He subsided, looking extremely pleased with himself. "Right. You can cast me out, now," he smiled.

"...Except that we have learned to be less wrathful and more loving, since our Father showed us that we too have Free Will," Castiel finished, stepping forward to hug Crowley once more, "And to forgive each other. To forgive is divine, Crowliel, and it pleases our Father greatly."

"What? No!" snapped Crowley. "You can't forgive me! Don't you dare forgive me!"

"I already have," Castiel assured him. "You assbutt."

"Okaaaaay, so, we'll call Gettin' Cast Out a fizzer," Bobby shook his head and chuckled. "Which only leaves us with stoppin' the prayers for your Redemption."

Crowley smacked himself in the forehead. "Of course!" he exclaimed. "Oh, why didn't I think of that? As ever, Bobby, you have cut to the cause of the problem, and come up with a solution! Oh, you great big wonderful knowledgeable lump of cleverness, darling!" he enthused, grabbing Bobby in a hug, whilst Bobby squawked in protest and muttered 'idjit'. "Now, where's that family tree? Let me see... all right, there's still a considerable number of my cloyingly caring clan in Scotland, so I'll start there. So, if I start killing them in Scotland, that should take me about, oh, make it a fortnight to make sure I get them all..."

"Crowley!" snapped Bobby, "You are NOT goin' and killin' anyone!"

"Watch me, love," grinned Crowley, as his wings began to flap.

"Bobby is right," Castiel echoed the old Hunter, "You are not going to kill anybody. Your angelic powers are not yet adequately matured for you even to move around Heaven unassisted, let alone make your way to Earth."

"Oh, yeah?" snarled Crowley, flapping determinedly, "Well, just call me the Little Angel That Could, because I'm on my way, as a couple of my countrymen once sang, tell you what, they're thoroughly irritating morons, I'll kill them too whilst I'm at it..."

Crowley began to roll on his training wheels, and managed to get airborne halfway along the corridor. "Here comes Granda!" he warbled happily, then disappeared.

"Cas, you gotta go after him!" Dean yelped, "You gotta stop him! He's going to kill his family!"

"He is not," Castiel reassured them. "He does not have the wherewithal yet to leave."

"So, how far can he get?" asked Sam.

There was a sudden swooshing noise, and Crowley appeared out of thin air at the other end of the corridor, arms and wings flailing. "Aaaaaaaargh!" he shrieked, kangarooing a couple of times, his wheels bouncing off the floor.

"Trailing edge down, Crowliel," instructed Castiel crisply, "Curve your wings, and drop your trailing edge, you need to lose speed before you drop altitude, like we practised..."

The angels, the saint, the visiting humans and one dog threw themselves out of the way as Crowliel continued to bounce along the corridor wailing like a fire engine.

"Control your pitch," Castiel called after him, "Watch your pitch, trim your pinions so you don't yaw..."

With a last howl, Crowley crashed into the wall.

Castiel was at his side immediately to help him up. "Well done," he praised, "You landed upright that time. You are definitely improving."

"Bollocks," sighed Crowley glumly.

"So, no eliminatin' the descendants with extreme prejudice," Bobby wagged a finger at Crowley and tried not to laugh too obviously. "However, it just so happens that I do have the germ of an idea. I'll need to have a look at the current information on Tribe Crowley, and we'll need some a couple of AngelAir flights."

"I can help you with that," Menariel offered.

"What are you thinking, Bobby?" asked Sam. "Are we going to Scotland?"

"I'll need at least three prune-and-bran muffins for a trip like that," specified Dean.

"Eventually," grinned Bobby. "But first, you two chuckleheads are coming back to the yard with me. Boys, it's time to frock up."

* * *

Ooooh, Clifford has made an interesting suggestion! Time for the boys to go to work, but... doing what? Feed the mysterious plot bunny reviews!

Reviews are the Winchester* Of Your Choice Leaving Intersting Self-Portraits For You On The Digital Camera Of Life!

*Yes, all right, Castiel counts as an honorary Winchester. He's practically family to them anyway. Which does NOT make Crowley a Winchester by adoption. Although the poor widdle demon could probably use some cheering up about now.


	14. Chapter 14

Le sigh - Clifford the plot bunny clammed up again, and Real Life is not helping. But I gave him a bit of a shake by the scruff, and this fell out...

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

Family. It can be a funny thing. It can be funny 'Ha Ha', or it can be funny 'Peculiar', or it can be funny 'Point And Laugh At Uncle Jeremy While He Pathetically Tries To Be Cool With His Teenage Nieces And Nephews', or possibly funny 'Jeezuz K Reist I Don't Believe I'm Related To This Collection Of Oxygen Thieves All I Can Do Is Try To Hold Out Until The Aliens Abduct Me'. It can be different things to different people. Indeed, it may be all four types of 'funny' to different members of the same family.

It can be nuclear, it can be extended, it can be step, it can be adoptive, it can be de facto, it can have parents of differing or same gender, it can include dogs, cats, or automotive vehicles, depending on whom you ask. It can go well above and beyond the once-simple connotation of blood kin. (Interestingly, the literal term 'blood kin' means something very different on Planet Frood; it's a term that Hunters use to describe those they have Hunted with, believing that if you have shed blood together – your own and some monster's – you share a closeness at least as close as with your broodfamily. For them, it all works out, although you will occasionally have a bit of awkwardness at weddings if the bride's Broodmother and Huntmother turn up wearing the same outfit.)

Family is a bit like pornography; difficult to define precisely, but you know it when you see it. Also, you may not want your friends to know you have it, and there's a chance it may make you want to scream and run from the room.

The thing is, it's pretty difficult to generalise about it, most of the time, despite what sociologists with long-winded titles to their authoring credits and earnest expressions on the jacket cover photos will tell you. In the Western world, a large proportion of families are nuclear, or close to. In poorer countries, families tend to have more children. Catholic families tend towards bigger than Protestant families.

In the case of the family McLeod descended from Granda Fergus, it was definitely big.

The girl with whom Crowley had dallied had been a decent and godly young woman, passing on to nearly all her descendants her simple but profound devotion to faith, family and Fergus. Naturally, as most of them were good Catholics, they had accepted all children as coming from God, and subsequently tended towards large families. There were still members in Scotland, although the diaspora that followed the Highland Clearances meant that there were more McLeods of Caithness in the US, Canada and Australia than remained behind in Scotland. Nonetheless, they had taken their prayers for Granda Crowley, and their rejection of family planning, with them.

Spread across the globe as they were, they nonetheless managed to remain in touch and informed about the doings of their kin, because family was important. The network of grandmothers, encircling the world like a nest of vigilant spiders spinning a web of surveillance to keep abreast of all goings on would've made J. Edgar Hoover weep with envy. As the keepers of family tradition and lore, they made it their business to know who was doing what and where and why and how and with whom. The advent of the electronic age had only made their exchange of information more rapid and efficient, as they took to the internet like a retiring jockey to a chocolate bar.

At any given time, they knew who was speaking to whom, who was not speaking to whom, and who was quarrelling with whom on account of What She Said About Claire At Great Uncle Douglas's Funeral. Occasionally, a son-in-law who married into the tribe would ask, mostly jokingly, if they would know who was pregnant before the expectant mother herself knew. But he wouldn't ask very loudly.

They could be seen at Mass, every Sunday, a cluster of eagle-eyed elderly ladies, identifiable by their lace veils in much the same way that SAS troopers can be identified by their berets, on the lookout for transgression, error or sin, or possibly just anything that they didn't like. They followed their missals with a ferocity usually only seen in politicians combing an opponent's policy for gaffes; more than one priest over the centuries had, with a small shudder, looked down at his flock and seen a McLeod matriarch glaring at him as if she would like to shove him out of the way and do it properly. They were women who took God seriously, and gave a distinct unspoken impression that, for His own sake, He had better be taking them seriously too.

Having grown up in the middle of one – indeed, having been required to be a chorister practically at gunpoint until his voice broke – Bobby had a first hand knowledge of just how a Catholic tribe could work. Under the benevolent tyranny of the grandmothers, the rules of survival were pretty simple: never take the Lord's name in vain, don't look at, mention or even think about the opposite sex until you're married (which always gave the grandmothers something to disapprove of you about, seeing as the actual courting and wedding bit required a certain minimum communication between the parties concerned), always be on time for church, and do not fuck with an elderly lady who wears a mantilla to Mass.

It was with his knowledge of the way these things worked that he formulated his plan.

"Why do I have to wear a damned dress?" griped Dean.

"It's not a dress, it's a habit," snapped Sam, fiddling with his dog collar. "The damned thing is too short for me."

"He's a lot more convincin' as a priest than you are, anyways," stated Bobby, settling his own dog collar into place and checking his hair.

"Oh, right, and I'm really the monk type," Dean rolled his eyes.

"You're not a monk, you're a postulant," corrected Sam, "Because nobody would believe you as a professed monk, either."

"Actually, in one of those alternative realities on Crowley's Hell TV channel when we were sortin' out that business with the abscondin' Hellhounds, you were both monks," Bobby informed them with a chuckle. "You went on to be an abbot, Dean."

"And I suppose he went on to be Costello?" grumbled Dean as Sam laughed out loud.

"Nope; he was a Vatican envoy," cackled Bobby. "Mind you, that wasn't as good as the one with your audition for the Bolshoi ballet – who knew you could fouetté like nobody's business? I got dizzy just watchin'..."

"You got the legs to carry off a tutu, you know," Sam opined breezily, as Dean muttered "Bitch" under his breath.

"So, what do you think, Menariel?" asked Bobby. "Do we look suitably ecclesiastical?"

"I'm afraid that I must agree with Bobby," the cherub cocked his head reluctantly, "Dean still has a decidedly... worldly ambiance about him. I am not certain that he will pass as a would-be monk."

"We know for a fact that the minute he opens his mouth, he won't pass for a monk," Bobby confirmed trenchantly.

"Maybe we could say that he's taken a vow of silence?" suggested Sam brightly, earning himself a glare from his big brother.

"Shut up. People will think you should be a nun, with hair that girly."

"Suitability of one's 'do notwithstandin', I think this is about as holy lookin' as we're goin' to get," decided Bobby, giving his hair one last comb into place. "If I can go around feelin' naked without my hat, Dean, you can wear a habit for an hour or so."

"I can see that it would be practical," Dean conceded, "It's kinda comfortable, and it would be really convenient if you met a young lady who was looking for a good time in a hurry..."

"Dean!" spluttered Sam, with a hefty Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often) in his brother's direction, "That's not what a habit is for! You're supposed to be a monk! You know, vow of chastity?"

"Chastity is a girl's name, not a lifestyle," grinned Dean infuriatingly, "And anyway, as you keep telling me, I'm not a monk, I'm a just a postulant. Which means, I haven't decided for sure whether the whole monk thing is really for me yet. I could be tempted back to a secular life by the right woman. In fact, do you remember that case in Michigan a few years back, where I had to go undercover as clergy, there was this girl who made it her personal mission to convince me that I was wasted in the priesthood, and she ended up making a very convincing case..."

"Jerk."

When they were attired to Bobby's satisfaction, he addressed Menariel. "Okay, then, Captain," he instructed, "Let's get AirAngel flight 001 to California in the air. Gentlemen, please ensure that your jaw is secured shut in the upright position."

They clustered around the cherub, and the world did that funny sideways _whoosh_ thing...

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

Margaret McLeod could be considered the spider at the centre of the web of the McLeod family in California. She was starting preparations for the family dinner that would take place later that day. Which is to say, she was supervising as her daughters, daughters-in-law and some grandchildren started preparations for the meal. She did not herself perform any of the tedious tasks of peeling, chopping, mixing, rolling, boiling or frying: she had done enough of that during her married life, she'd prepared more meals than the Holy Father had eaten hot dinners, thank you very much. So when the door bell rang, she went to answer it after issuing strict instructions to keep stirring the gravy and not let the custard boil.

She was somewhat taken aback to see three of the clergy on her doorstep, two priests and monk, but she instantly put on her most welcoming smile and opened the door.

"Oh, hello, Fathers and Brother," she greeted them.

"Good day, madam; am I addrrrressing Mrrrrrrs Marrrrgaret Claire McLeod?" asked the older bearded priest in a thick Glaswegian burr fit to rival anything that a Star Trek engineer had ever produced. When she nodded, he went on. "I am Father Philip Campbell, representative of the Diocese of Aberdeen, of the Bishops' Conference of Scotland. These two gentlemen are your countrymen, this is Postulant Brother Ian Kilmister," he indicated the monk, who offered her a smile that was in her estimation not at all suitable for a monk to be flashing, "And this is Father Michael Burston, an under-librarian at the Vatican."

"Goodness me," she managed, terribly impressed and not at all anticipating any frisson of satisfaction when casually mentioning to Mrs Henderson after Mass next weekend that she'd had visitors from the Vatican drop in, "Please come in, gentlemen. What is this about? If it's about the new altar cloth at St Aloysius's, I'm afraid I have not changed my opinion; it's a dreadful and moth-eaten old thing, and we will soon have finished the embroidery on a new one..."

"No no, not at all," Father Campbell reassured her, "It is in fact about one of your ancestors. One Fergus Roderick McLeod, of Canisbay. You may not know of him, but..."

"Oh, Granda Fergus!" Mrs McLeod clapped her hands in delight. "Oh, he is a great figure in our family! Please, do come in!"

She led them to the living room, after issuing orders to various family members to prepare coffee and snacks, and for the swarm of children to make themselves presentable and parade at once to greet the priests politely. By the time they'd all trooped in and said hello under the matriarch's watchful eye, Sam had to fight not to wipe his hand on his cassock.

"I do hope we are not interrupting," ventured Father Campbell.

"Not at all!" Mrs McLeod stated firmly, "If this is some matter to do with Granda Fergus, it will be important to the family! Whatever can it be that makes him important enough for the Vatican to be involved?"

"It's to do with the relocation of a memorial stone," Father Campbell explained, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "There is a small church North of Aberdeen that was badly damaged in a storm and has been deconsecrated; it is the Church's intention to reinstate the stones on holy ground. One of those stones was placed there in memory of your ancestor, Fergus McLeod. Your Granda Fergus."

"I'm not sure that I see what that has to do with me," began Mrs McLeod.

"The thing is," began Father Burston seriously, giving her the impression that despite his height he was peeking up adorably through all that hair, "Before the stones could be transferred to another church, the priest and his bishop insisted that the bona fides of those memorialised be established. That's where I came in, researching the life of your Grandfather Fergus. My assistant Brother Ian and I" – as he spoke, Brother Kilmister shot him another expression that Margaret thought should definitely not appear on a monk's face, unless he was an abbot scolding novices who were remiss in their Latin recitation – "Were assigned the task of researching him, to find out about him, and the life he led."

"Oh, how very exciting!" exclaimed Mrs McLeod.

Father Burston looked thoughtful. "Yes, Mrs McLeod," he agreed firmly, "I believe that 'exciting' is entirely an appropriate word."

"Mrs McLeod, perhaps you could tell us, what do you know about your ancestor Fergus?" asked Brother Kilmister, finally schooling his features into an expression that she deemed suitably monkish.

"Not a lot of detail, I'm afraid," She told them with a smile, "Just that Gran Fiona loved him dearly. He left to seek his fortune, and was lost, presumably meeting with some dreadful accident, but his daughter was born after he left, and grew up as devout as her mother. Her teaching of love for him has come down to us all, and we thank God for him, for without him, none of us would be here."

"An admirable and pious sentiment," nodded Father Campbell approvingly, "Under the cirrrrcumstances. Your charity does your family and your Gran Fiona grrrrreat credit."

Mrs McLeod's smile faltered a little. "Whatever do you mean?" she asked.

"Well, we have been able to establish that Fergus and Fiona never married," Father Burston took a thick folder from his back, and began to page through it, "Which, of course, is no bad reflection on his descendants. On your branch of his descendants, I mean."

"My branch?" queried Margaret, thoroughly confused.

"Descended from Fiona," clarified Father Burston, "After he left Fiona, he took up with another girl in Wick, and married her four weeks later. They had a son, and there are also many descendants from that union..."

"He married another woman?" Margaret sounded... disappointed.

"Oh, at least," Brother Kilmister cut in with that decidedly unmonkish grin again. "Well, if you could call them marriages – he'd woo a girl, marry her, then move on when he was bored, apparently. Well, the ones he bothered to marry first, anyway."

"He didn't!" She sounded absolutely scandalised.

"I'm afrrrraid there is no doubt, Mrs McLeod," Father Campbell said regretfully. "Your Granda Fergus was an unrepentant serial bigamist."

"We were able to track numerous such charades of his," Father Burston went on, his lemon-sucking expression clearly demonstrating that he did not approve, "Until he made his way to England, apparently being chased most of the way from Edinburgh to Leeds by the irate brothers of a young lady he'd similarly deceived. Once there, I'm afraid he did not reform: he continued to court, marry, then abandon a string of decent young women, leaving more offspring as he went."

"That's... terrible!" Margaret burst out.

"It caught up with him in the end," Brother Kilmister grinned again, as if he was enjoying the story, "After he pursued, wooed, subdued and scr... er, ruined a young lady of very good family, he was forced to leave for the American colonies."

"He took ship with a group of Puritans," indicated Father Burston, "Telling that that he wanted to take God to the heathens."

"And did he?" asked Margaret, "Did he redeem himself, and take Mother Church to the New World?"

"The records are less complete, obviously," Father Campbell reminded her, "But from what we can establish, all he took to the New World was syphilis."

"He was once more forced to flee," Brother Kilmister continued portentously, "After he had seduced and infected three of the virgin daughters of Chief Wolf-Licks-His-Own-Groin, a warleader famous for his military prowess and his astonishing physical flexibility, leader of the Fugawee tribe..."

"After which he took ship to the Orient," Father Burston took up the narrative, with one of those cat's-bottom faces, whether at Brother Kilmister or Granda Fergus she wasn't sure, "Where he spent some time with a Hindu holy man as a disciple, then established his own ashram and preached a doctrine of universal free love, largely expressed through acts of fornication offered unto the god Krishna..."

"In fact, in that province of India, there is a large region where the word 'fergus' means 'orgy' in the local dialect," nodded Brother Kilmister with authority.

Margaret crossed herself.

"...Eventually, he tired of India, and spent some time in trade in the Middle East," Father Campbell took up the tale, "Where he embraced Islam, but was once more forced to flee when his unbecoming conduct was discovered..."

"Porking," intoned Brother Kilimster seriously, as his colleagues glared at him. "Women, and sausages," the good brother clarified, "He couldn't give up either. That's definitely not allowed in Islam. Especially if, like Fergus, you get caught doing something with an unmarried woman _and_ a pork sausage..."

"He returned to Europe," Father Campbell cut in smoothly as Margaret McLeod fanned herself in horror, "He could not return to the UK, for fear of being found by the families of the young women he'd ruined and deserted, but he settled eventually in Germany."

"Germany?" Margaret burst out, "What on Earth was he doing in Germany?"

The three men of God exchanged A Look, then turned back to her with compassionate expressions.

"He married again," Father Campbell informed her.

"A Lutheran matron," Father Burston added. "In order to reach an accord, he converted to Lutheranism for the ceremony, then they both renounced God, and by all accounts lived happily together as avowed and unrepentant atheists."

Margaret McLeod sat in horrified silence, letting the life story of her hitherto revered ancestor sink in.

"He and his wife started the very first commercial condom making business known to have been established in Europe," finished Brother Kilmister. "It was quite successful. Fergus had something of a head for business."

"And that, Mrs McLeod," Father Campbell told her gently, "Is why Fergus McLeod's stone cannot be reinstalled in a consecrated building. I'm afraid he was a man of appalling conduct, apostate and unrepentant. In earlier times, we would have used the word 'heretic'."

She struggled to find words. "I... I don't know what to say," she managed finally.

"Mrs McLeod, there is nothing you need to say," Father Campbell reassured her, "This is absolutely no reflection on his descendants, who are to all intents and purposes devout servants of God. Fergus, I fear, may be beyond redemption. Indeed, his will made it clear that he did not want redemption."

"I'm almost afraid to ask what it said," she replied in a small voice.

Father Burston took a piece of paper from his file, and read. "I, Fergus Roderick McLeod, being of sound mind if failing body, do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament. To my wife Trude I leave all my worldly goods, and as it seems likely now that I will predecease her, I charge her to take the small jar of urine I have put by for the purpose and to make her way to the cathedral at Cologne and beseech her to tip it into the holy water and surreptitiously upon the altar in memory of me..."

"Classy," nodded Brother Kilmister, as Margaret let out a horrified shriek.

"As I said, Mrs McLeod," Father Campbell resumed, "It is clear that your ancestor Fergus neither wanted nor deserved the devotion that his descendants have afforded him." Father Burston handed over an envelope, presumably with the details of Fergus's transgressions within. "However, I must commend your Gran Fiona to you. She was a credit to you all."

"She... she was?" stuttered the shell-shocked matriarch.

"Oh, yes," Father Burston said on more encouragingly, "She was a devout and pious woman, raised her daughter in the True Faith, worked diligently to support herself and contributed all her spare income, and much of her time, to various charitable church works. When her daughter was old enough to marry, she entered a convent, and spent the rest of her life working tirelessly to aid the sick and destitute, and died a well respected and much loved Mother Superior. Truly, she is an ancestor worthy of veneration."

"Seriously classy," Brother Kilmister smiled.

Margaret let out a breath she didn't realise she'd been holding. "Well... thank you, Fathers, and Brother Kilmister," she finally managed, "You've given me a lot of information."

"We don't like to be the bearers of bad news," Father Campbell said regretfully, "But since we were in town on business anyway, the Bishop of Aberdeen thought it would be appropriate for us to inform Fergus's family as to what was happening, and your branch was the easiest to trace."

"Ha! It sounds as though you could knock on any second door in any second street, and you'd probably find one of Fergus's descendants," she observed tartly, and all three men laughed a little.

"We have taken up enough of your time, Mrs McLeod," declared Father Campbell, as they all stood, "And I thank you for hearing us out."

"Will you stay for lunch, gentlemen?" she asked them. "The family is expected, and there will be plenty to go around."

"Alas, duty calls," sighed the good Father, as she thought she caught Father Burston kicking Brother Kilmister surreptitiously in the shin, "And we must be about the Church's work."

"Will you at least take something for your afternoon tea?" she wheedled.

She was in the end happy to send them away with a tray of her bran and prune muffins (well, technically, it was her recipe that had been baked by one of her daughters), which she thought an odd choice - mostly, she only made them when Great-Uncle Floyd was visiting, on account of his condition - but Brother Kilmister seemed absolutely delighted with them.

She checked her watch; there was some time to go before family members would start arriving in earnest, so she headed for the study, where she sat down and skimmed through the contents of the envelope.

With her face hardening into an expression of religious disapproval, she fired up the computer, opened a new email, and began to compose a message to be sent to a number of cousins at various distances of removal, in both the familial and geographical senses.

* * *

Woot! What a long one! (As the Muslim lady said to the Scottish tailor when she saw his pork sausage). Let's hope the hatchet job on Crowley did the trick!

Anyone who's read 'In Dog We Trust' will recall the Hell TV channel on which Crowley perused alternative realities, and which Bobby watched for some time afterwards, including the one where Sam was a hot-shot bitchy fashion designer, Dean was the most sought-after and tantrum-prone male supermodel in the world, Cas and Gabriel were there PAs and Jimi was a savage chihuahua...

Come on, we gotta get Clifford to finish this one! Don't let him starve! Fat plot bunnies are talkative plot bunnies! Feed him reviews! They're the Winchester Of Your Choice In Ecclesiastic Dress Taking Tea With You On The Sofa Of Life! (You know, traditionally, strictly speaking, monks weren't supposed to wear underpants on account of St Benedict never explicitly mentioned them in his Rule...)


	15. Chapter 15

I'm really hoping that our regular Denizens are all still out there, and have not been eaten by Real Life. It's always possible that the zombie apocalypse has started and I just haven't noticed because my workmates all tend to look a bit zombified by this time of the year anyway, in which case I hope you are bunkered down with lots of tinned food and ammunition...

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

"How long is it going to take?" asked Crowley with all the plaintiveness of a three-year-old asking whether he has to stay in his Sunday best clothes for much longer.

"Time is a property of the limited reality of a linear, physical plane existence," Castiel reminded his youngest brother. "As you already know, Crowliel. What may take the Winchesters a couple of hours in their mortal experience could take an eon in Heaven."

"I should go and have a chat with that Einstein guy," sighed Crowley, oozing defeat. Jimi Senior nudged him, and Heaven's youngest and least talented Herald listlessly flipped his halo away like a frisbee, noting that at least the dog had given up chasing him, and was content to chase his halo instead. "He might be able to explain the whole time relativity thing to me, and tell me if there's a way around it."

"You might be able to sit in on one of the Professor's lectures," suggested Castiel. "Herr Professor Einstein still does quite a bit of teaching, and runs an extensive research program," he explained, "His interest lies largely towards quantum mechanical theory, but he does still supervise some work into general and special relativity."

"Lectures?" echoed Crowley. "With Einstein? There's research going on in Heaven?"

"Oh, yes," Castiel continued, "Many academics like to continue their work once they arrive. Some of them like to ask Father, but many of them declare that 'It's more fun to find out for yourself'. Herr Professor Einstein enjoys his teaching and his research enormously. I was not present when he arrived, but one of the Heralds reported that he requested an audience with Father. He wanted to discuss a Grand Unified Theory of Quantum Relativity."

"He did?" Crowley queried. "What happened?"

"Apparently, Father met with him, and presented him with a large, hard-bound copy of an explanation of His Creation's properties of Quantum Relativity," Castiel related.

"That must've been quite overwhelming for the old guy," conceded Crowley.

"It was, initially," Castiel continued, "The Professor thanked Father, and skimmed the first few pages. Then, he sighed deeply, and mused sadly to himself, 'Oh dear, still wrong'."

"Well, I'm given to believe it's all very complicated," Crowley reminded his big brother, whizzing the halo frisbee away again after Jimi returned with it and barked enthusiastically for another throw. "What with cat's in boxes, and everything. Anybody who's ever tried to stuff a cat into a travel box will know just how complicated it can be..."

"That was only a thought experiment, proposed by Herr Professor Schrödinger," corrected Castiel. "I became apprised of this when I went to inform him that Heaven will not tolerate any cruelty to animals in the name of science. I have met his cat; his name is Markus, and he has a cushion in the Professor's study. He died of geriatric kidney failure, not from being put in a box."

"I miss Gedda," sighed Crowley wistfully, patting Jimi Sr's big earnest head as the dog returned once more with the much hated halo. "I miss Gedda, and I miss my booze, and I miss my bidet, and I miss watching the resigned despair on the sea of upturned faces at monthly meetings when they realise that Asmodeus from Accounting has at least another hundred slides to go in his PowerPoint presentation, and that's without the inserted animations. Gedda is your... granddaughter, I suppose. She knows just how to cheer me up when I've had a bad day – I'll never get tired of the sight of some arrogant arsehole of the Hierarchy scuttling away with the seat torn out of his trousers." The dog whuffed sympathetically, and put an understanding paw on Crowley's leg. "At least I have you to talk to," Crowley said, "You understand, don't you? Maybe it's because you started off as a Hellhound. My Alpha Hellhound. Belisarius. The Winchesters had no business dognapping you, and turning you into a Hunter, and renaming you after a drug-addled man with a terrible hairdo who couldn't even play a guitar the right way around. I can't tell you how disappointed I was when we didn't get him Downstairs, you know..."

"Mr Hendrix still performs sometimes," Castiel cut in helpfully, "I'm sure that if you wanted to you could attend one of his concerts..."

"Only if I'm allowed to throw stones," griped Crowley, ruffling Jimi Sr's ears. "Or set Belisarius here on him, for old time's sake."

"Jimi Senior will return to the custody of the Guardian of Companions when the Winchesters and Bobby return to Earthy life," Castiel reminded him, "Where he will Wait for Dean." He cocked his head thoughtfully. "If you like working with animals, I could have you assigned to assist Denariel, the Guardian, until such time as we are granted Revelation as to Father's purpose for you," he offered the reluctant fledgling. "She is always grateful for help, especially with souls like Jimi here – he can take a lot of... Guardianing..."

"I suppose it's better than spending eternity waiting for Bobby and the Dolly Sisters to come through," Crowley sniffled. "They hate me, you know."

"That is because you were once a demon, the King of Hell, and you double-crossed, thwarted, or attempted to kill them on a number of occasions," Castiel suggested. "Now that you are Redeemed, they may come to see your better qualities."

"In order for enough time to pass for that to happen, I really will have to ask Einstein to work out some time travel dodge for me," Crowley observed glumly. "Well, come on, then, Belisarius – what a pair we make, me the King of the Demons, and you the King of the Hellhounds, reduced to perverted shadows of our magnificently malevolent former selves. It makes me want to weep, it really does. I suppose that keeping you company for the next however-long-it-takes-that-idiot-to-die-properly is better than spending the time serenading the unwary with 'Row Row Row Your Boat'. Or crashing into hard surfaces. Or attempting to bring solace and comfort to ungrateful precocious scheming little six-legged proto-sociopaths..."

Crowley spread his wings, anticipating another humiliating take-off using his training wheels, when the sudden _flap-flap_ of an incoming angel announced the return of Menariel and his AirAngel passengers.

"Well?" demanded Crowley petulantly.

"Bobby and the Winchesters have successfully completed their mission," the catalogue cherub announced.

"No they haven't!" scoffed Crowley derisively, wings flailing about in irritation, "Otherwise, why have I still got these damned things? OW!"

"We have completed what we set out to do," Bobby clarified, settling his hat firmly back on his head, "We have explained to the most extensively networked and easily offended member of your descendants what an asshole you are."

"It wasn't that difficult," added Dean, from around a mouthful of bran and prune muffin. "It just seems to be some sort of universal law that it's easy for people to believe that you're a total douchebag. Eat another one of these, Francis, I don't want anything making you any more toxic than necessary a week from now than you usually are for polluting my car on the road."

"We had to make up some details," Sam elaborated, taking the muffin that his big brother foisted upon him, "But I think we managed to convince her that you are completely unworthy of prayers of intercession or any form of veneration." He handed over a sheaf of dog-eared paper.

"You might want to read up, in case there's a pop quiz sometime," suggested Dean breezily.

Crowley scanned the document, his expression becoming more disbelieving. "I never did!" he protested. "I never did that! And I never did that!" His eyes bugged. "Ooooh, I never did!" His eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "Chief Wolf-Likes-His-Own-Groin?... The Happy Horny Hindu House?... With a _pork sausage_?" He looked up in utter disbelief. "That's impossible!" he practically shrieked. "That is anatomically, gastronomically and geometrically _impossible_!"

Dean just waggled his eyebrows suggestively, whilst Sam pulled a Bitchface #13™ (You Are So Totally Gross I Don't Have A Bitchface Adequate To Convey My Utter Disgust).

"Oh, yeah, don't forget, since your visit to that place, in the local dialect of Arabic, the word 'machlood' now actually means 'foreplay so imaginative that it's probably illegal'," the elder Winchester informed Crowley brightly, as Bobby muttered about idjitry unbecoming.

"This is slander!" Crowley declared in outrage, "Slander and calumny most foul!"

"We had to make sure it was convincing," Sam explained, "Laying it on as thick as possible..."

"As thick as a pork sausage?" grinned Dean beatifically. Bobby slapped him upside the head.

"... Was necessary to give this plan the best possible chance to work," Sam finished, glaring at his brother again.

"You keep tellin' us that you're the King of Hell," Bobby pointed out in a reasonable tone, "Aren't you supposed to be evil incarnate?"

"Well, yes," agreed Crowley, "I'm a ruthless, heartless, vicious, scheming, double-crossing, dishonest, lying, cheating, selfish, immoral, utter, utter, utter bastard. But this..." he waved a hand distastefully at the paper, "With a _sausage_? There are _limits_, Bobby."

"Since you are determined upon the course to attempt to return to Hell and resume your former duties," Castiel broke in, sounding a little sad, "I agree with Sam that a certain amount of exaggeration was prudent, in order to maximise the chance of the plan succeeding."

"But... I'm still here!" Crowley burst out. "It can't have worked, because I'm still here!"

"It'll take some time for Margaret to start spreadin' the information about what an asshat you were," Bobby said soothingly, "So you just gotta wait for the jungle drums to do their thing."

"I don't want to wait!" howled Crowley. "It could feel like forever! I could be stuck here forever! I could be the littlest angel forever! I don't want this forever! Not if I can't even die from an overload of saccharine niceness! I want to go hooooooome!" He began to sob heartbrokenly.

"Crowliel, please do not distress yourself," began Castiel in a comforting tone.

"I want to go hooooooome!" wailed Crowley.

"We've done all we can," Bobby told him consolingly, "Look, you're just gonna have to wait this one out..."

"There's no place like home!" giggled Crowley slightly manically, frantically clicking his heels together, "There's no place like home! There's no place like home!"

Sam peered thoughtfully at Crowley. "Uh, I think something might have snapped," he ventured.

Jimi Senior reappeared with Crowley's halo, and woofed anxiously. "Oh, Belisarius!" Crowley dropped to his knees and hugged the dog, who whined in sympathy, "I'm going to be trapped here forever! I'm so unhappeeeeeee!"

"You will always have Jimi here to play Fetch with you," Castiel reminded him, "Fra Francis of Assisi tells me that he never tires of the game, and is always a happy and cheerful companion."

"I don't want him to fetch my damned halo!" Crowley shrieked in a voice that dangled over the edge of hysteria by its jockstrap, "I want him to take it, and chew it into a million pieces, then dig a hole a million miles deep, then drop it in, and take a shit on it, then bury it and forget where it is! I don't want a halo! I want to LOSE the fucking halo! I don't want to see this halo EVER AGAIN!" With a deranged yodel, Heaven's newest angel flung his halo once more. Powered by his anger, his despair, and a little blue spark of proto-smite to help it along, it flew high into the air, with Jimi Sr cheerfully barking as he raced after it.

"At least you got a dog that loves you," Bobby shrugged, "You'll be amazed just how far that can get you on the bad days."

"Everybody here loves me," moaned Crowley miserably, "And I can't stand it..."

The frisbeed halo was a bright winking twirl of Heavenly gold against the clear blue sky of the Firmament, turning and flashing and catching the ethereal light that was the radiance of Heaven...

Then it disappeared.

Jimi Sr trotted around in circles for a few moments, gazing up in good-natured confusion, before he returned to Dean, whuffing to solicit a new game.

"Where did it go, fella?" asked Dean. "Where did it go?"

"Looks like Crowley actually managed to smite his own halo," Bobby shook his head in bemusement.

Castiel looked thoughtful. "He did not," he corrected, "It has... disappeared. It has ceased to exist."

The humans looked at each other. "Does that mean..." began Bobby.

There was a _twangtwongtwung_ sound from behind them, as with a strange popping noise of inrushing air, the harp that Crowley had been unhappily clutching just vanished from his grasp.

"His harp has also disappeared," Castiel informed them, staring hard at Crowley with the Eye Sex Stare Of MRI Scanning. "I believe that your plan is working," he told them, sounding a little disappointed. "It would appear that Crowliel is... reverting."

"Reverting?" Crowley responded, wistful eyes fixed on the Sheriff of Heaven.

"Yes," confirmed Castiel, "I believe that you are resuming your demonic nature once more."

"Well, that's... that's... ooooh! Ooooooh! OooooOOOOOooooh!" Crowley's wings began to flap in agitation, and he spun around on the spot a couple of times trying to look at them. "What are they doing? What are you doing you stupid appendages? Ow! Ow! OW!"

The wings kept flapping and thrashing until, with a strangely comical popping sound, they detached themselves from Crowley's back and flew off, becoming smaller and smaller until they were no longer visible.

Bobby and the Winchesters stared at Crowley. "Is that it, then?" asked Bobby. "Is he His Demonic Majesty again?"

Apparently barely daring to move, Crowley held out his hands and thought very hard about a lovely bottle of single malt..

When the bottle appeared on one hand and a glass appeared in the other, he poured himself a triple, stared at it, then necked the bottle.

"Oh, bliss!" he cried, smiling beatifically, "I'm a born-again pisstank! Here!" He handed the glass to Bobby, then grabbed the old Hunter in a hug. "Thank you, Bobby," he said tearfully, "Thank you, you saved me, love, you genius, you wonderful wonderful genius, you saved me, and all this time, I thought you didn't care..."

"Get off me, ya idjit," grumped Bobby, extracting himself from Crowley's grateful embrace, "And don't flatter yourself. All we care about is keeping Hell under control."

"Well, if he's back to his old self, what now?" asked Sam.

"I get the fuck out of this madhouse, and back to my realm!" grinned Crowley. "I have some catching up to do! In fact, while I'm here..." he turned to Jimi Sr. "This is an unprecedented opportunity for me to reclaim one of Hell's own!" he declared. "I will go back, and I will take Belisarius here with me, he who was so cruelly torn away from the only Pit he'd ever known, to be enslaved as a whining lackey by Tweedledum and Tweedledumber. It was criminal, what you did. Come on, fella," he called to the dog, "Come back with me, you can depose that callow youth of a grandson who currently leads the Infernal Pack, and resume your rightful place at my right hand, as the Alpha male, and First Hellhound! What do you say, Bel?" He held out a hand in welcome.

Jimi Sr's eyes glowed the flaring red of fanned embers, and his hellteeth bristled like butcher's knives as he let out a growl that came to them through their boots rather than their ears...

"I guess that's a no, then, now you're a demon again," Dean grinned smugly, as Crowley yelped and snatched his hand back, "Jimi will stay here, and Wait. Because he's a good boy. Aint ya, fella?" The dog's demeanour changed completely as he grinned happily up at Dean. "I gotta go home too," he told the dog, scratching Jimi's ears, "But it's okay, because I got your boy Jimi Junior to look after me. So you go back and be a good boy for the Guardian, okay? I'll see you again. Not too soon, though." Jimi whuffed once more in happy farewell, and turned around to charge off into the distance, fading out as he did so.

"Bastards. Well, don't just stand there, Mr Smitey McSmiterson," Crowley said imperiously to Castiel, "Send me Downstairs, Mr Sheriff of Heaven! Let me have it!"

Castiel looked sorrowful. "Goodbye then, Crowlie... Crowley," he intoned. "The Host shall be poorer for losing one of our brothers, even if it is his own wish. I shall pray to our Father for your ReRedemption."

"Don't you bloody dare!" yapped Crowley. "I'm your mortal enemy, King of Hell, and the Adversary of Heaven! Now we can get back to hating each other properly! Finally!"

"You were once my little brother," Castiel smiled gently, "And I can never hate you."

"Sure you can," wheedled Crowley, looking desperate, "You hate me, you loathe me, you despise me for the demon filth that I am! Don't you dare go being compassionate at me, you feathery bastard!"

"Bear in mind that Lucifer has been granted Redemption by our Father," Castiel reminded him. "And you have now set a precedent showing that Redemption of a demon is, even if highly improbable, possible. And if that is possible, then His mercy may yet extend to all of demonkind."

"What?" Crowley's eyes bugged in horror. "Bite your tongue! Don't even think it!"

"Farewell," Castiel smiled, and summoned his Grace, "Until you return to us, little brother."

"You priiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick!" Crowley's howling protest died away as, with a flick of his Grace, Castiel sent him back to Hell.

"Assbutt," murmured Cas.

* * *

In the Jimiverse, we found out about Lucifer's redemption in 'Pack Up Your Troubles' (as far as we know, he's still with Alfonso). We found out about Jimi Senior's true identity as the Alpha dog of the Infernal Pack in "In Dog We Trust' (the same story with Hell TV on Bobby's flat screen). In fact, I've been wondering, what shows would the DDD&SSS would look for in the alternative realities on Channel Hell if they got hold of the remote? There's probably a game show called Sam-In-A-Box; I'm sure Leahelisabeth would be the grand champion...

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Joining You For Some Sort Of Amusement That Your Grandmother Would Not Necessarily Approve Of After The Family Dinner Of Life!


	16. Chapter 16

Real Life, Clifford and Windows, oh my,  
Real Life, Clifford and Windows, oh my...

Srsly. I think my laptop has shat itself. I blame Windoze, and its interminable updates. Give me back my files! *shakes fist* And I've decided that Clifford the plot bunny might be somewhere on the autism/Asperger's spectrum. But we're getting there - I see light at the end of the plot bunny burrow!

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

The Throne Room of Hell was a gigantic and cavernous hall of vast and changeable dimensions – no matter what was going on in there, it was always echoingly huge, a space that was intended to speak of intimidating power and ruthless authority whilst accommodating Lucifer's whims. The inconstant nature of its properties would've made a Time Lord hand back his TARDIS.

Lucifer had used it as his centre of intrigue for his rule over Hell. In an alternative reality, the Boy King, Lord Samuel, had renamed it The Unattractive Office, and installed a bouncy castle to keep his older brother amused. During Crowley's administration, it had become something of a gathering place, where demons mingled to scheme, connive, plot, skive off, hang around, see and be seen, and generally do the vicious back-biting equivalent of what might be called demonic socialising.

It was into the milling throng of demons, from the upper tiers of the Hierarchy to the most junior who were barely-broken souls, that Crowley found himself reappearing in a small shower of feathers. Brushing at the offending plumes in disgust, he looked around him.

The first thing that he noticed was that the general ambiance was decidedly low in angst, simmering resentment, and power-hungry revolutionary regicidal zeal. It was a survival trait that was particularly strong in Crowley; nobody could hope to wield any sort of authority in Hell without keeping one metaphorical wetted finger aloft in the zeitgeist at all times and a close eye on the long distance forecast. Any self-proclaimed monarch of Hell who couldn't pick up on That Sort Of Thing until the masses were waving the tricolour and storming the office with shouts of "Imprissoné, Discriminé, Tyranné" wouldn't last a week. That was a relief, then – there was no indication that any of the Pit's most senior demons were plotting any more vigorously than usual to depose him and reduce him to a small sulphurous smear on the floor.

The second thing he noticed was that just about every demon he could see was carrying a handbag.

There were large handbags, there were small handbags, there were clutches and totes, there were saddle-bags and hobos, there were baguettes and bucket bags, there were purses and pouches and pocketbooks – everywhere he looked, everyone carried bags of some sort. Elderly Hierarchy noblemen had finely crafted satchels of dark leather. Their ladies carried purses inlaid with rows of glittering gems. Mid-ranking go-getters hefted large carry-alls with wide straps, females had woven bags with intricate patterns of stone beads in the weft. A couple of callow youths, Hell's equivalent of teenagers, had black faux hide bags set with rows of angular studs, the sort of thing that fashion-conscious Klingons might have craved, had there been a designer named K'thak Vuitton in the Star Trek verse. Some female demons had strange fluffy little items sticking out of their bags – he made a mental note to check whether there was some new fad for voodoo dolls that he might need to deal with.

The third thing he noticed, as his phone chirped at him with an appointment reminder, was that none of them were making the slightest effort to get to the monthly Departmental Meeting. He frowned; the younger ones at least should be trudging off, groaning in anticipation, to spend the next several hours wishing they were mortal again so that they could kill themselves to escape the horror that was a Departmental Meeting. Arranging his face into a suitably authoritative scowl, he strode over to a group of them who were all engrossed in their, whatever, iThingys.

"Oi! You lot!" he snapped, "Why aren't you headed off to the meeting? You'd better be reading the agenda there..."

"What meeting?" asked one young demon, looking up at him.

"The Departmental Meeting!" Crowley growled, "It's compulsory for you lot, so, chop chop!"

"Oh, that," another waved a hand without looking up. "We don't do those meetings any more. Thank fuck."

"Yes you do, you little sod," Crowley shot back, "You'll do as you're told, pal."

"Says who?" asked the demon, finally looking up.

"Says me," Crowley grinned at him, preparing to savour the moment when the young idiot realised who he was talking to.

Said demon merely looked at him quizzically. "Who the hell are you?" he asked.

Crowley's grin faltered just slightly. "Me? Oh, nobody, really, I suppose," he sighed, "I'm just the poor bastard who keeps the place running, I'm just the... KING OF HELL!"

The cluster of young demons looked at him curiously.

"No you're not," countered one of them disdainfully, "I've met the King of Hell. He's ten feet tall, and he's a lot scarier than you."

"Scarier than me?" breathed Crowley in disbelieving anger, "Scarier than me, is he? Listen, sunshine, I could tear your very essence apart, ripping your miserable excuse for a self from your meatsuit by the scruff of its screaming neck, and twisting it until you beg for oblivion!"

"That's nothing," scoffed a youngster, "All the boss has to do to scare someone is smile."

"He's awesome," grinned another one.

"Did you hear what he did to Duke Ganthery?" asked a female demon breathlessly, "And Duke Belaal, after the takeover attempt?"

"Yeah," smiled another. "Totally cool."

"You can't be talking about Orgle?" Crowley snorted dismissively. "He's just a fiend! He's a stand-in! He's only temporary Acting Monarch of Hell!"

"Yeah, that's what he keeps saying," offered a third demon.

"People are saying that it's so he doesn't offend Lucifer, now he's out of the Cage and everything," another shrugged. "In case he comes back."

Crowley's eyes bugged. "No! No!" he yapped irritably, "He's standing in for me! I told you, I am the King of Hell! And I am telling you to get your irritating little carcasses off to the meeting before I..."

"Look, I don't know what rock you've been hiding under, pal," grinned the first youngster, "But the new guy in charge has scrapped the meetings."

"He... scrapped my monthly meetings?" echoed Crowley incredulously.

"Yeah," Mr iThingy went on. "New head guy is totally cool. Everyone keeps saying how much better stuff is now. Like, no more meetings."

"But... how do you get your essential information?" demanded Crowley. "How are youngsters like you supposed to find out important stuff? Like, don't mess with the Winchesters?"

"Oh, we see it all on Facehook," the female demon told him, proffering her iThingy. "His Acting Majesty set it up. It's really good, you can check it any time."

Crowley looked horrified. "But... what about if I'm not on, er, Facehook?" he asked.

"Oh, you just gotta call the IDIOTs," she assured him, "The boss guy arranged it – they'll sort everything out for you. They're really great."

"There's a whole page on the Winchesters," another told him seriously. "There's stories and posts and stuff from demons who've tangled with them. There's pictures. And links to EwwTube clips." The group shuddered collectively. "I'm never going anywhere near those assholes." His fellow demons muttered in agreement.

"Well," Crowley composed himself, "What are you doing swanning about up here? Unless I miss my guess, all of you should be in the Lower Circles, at the racks, like good little time-serving drones..."

"I don't like it down there," whined a female demon, wrinkling her nose. "It's too hot, it's too noisy, and it smells awful. Plus, I keep getting pieces of entrails in the side of the head, when the guys down there throw them around. It's just nasty."

"Well, of _course_ it's _nasty_," scolded Crowley, "It's supposed to be nasty! It's Hell! Hell! This is Hell! You are demons, and you are in Hell! Which bit of the word 'Hell' do you not understand?" He glared at them. "You are freshly minted demons! And being a freshly minted demon means that you start at the bottom, like everybody else, and that means serving your time in the Pit..."

"We don't have to do that, now," the iThingy demon told him. "We do it remotely." He showed Crowley his iThingy. "See? I'm tele-tortuing." The screen did indeed show a screaming soul writhing on the rack.

"You're what?" Crowley's voice disappeared into a squeak of outrage.

"It's like, working from home," smiled the female, showing him her own device. "It's called the iRack. It's really easy. See the toolbar here? You just click on a tool – this one's the blunt scalpel – then you use the cursor to drag it..."

"Do you know how much Red Energy we save by not commuting to the Pit?" said a demon brightly. "The less we use, the more we have available for the effort to thwart Heaven's intents and purposes."

"It makes me feel like I'm doing my part for the corporate cause," nodded another, and they all murmured agreement.

"Hey, the IDIOTs have released a whole new bunch of downloads," one of the others commented eagerly, "Have you guys got 'chainsaw' and 'eyeball scoop' yet?" His fellow iRack users all immediately picked up their devices, and began tapping away at them.

"This is... this is..." Crowley was beside himself. "This is... ridiculous! You can't torture a soul by remote! You have to be there, to see it, to feel it, to smell it, to revel in the fear and despair!"

"There's an app for that," one told him dismissively. "Hey, look, I can put the chain on backwards! It'll take forever to cut through a leg like this!"

"I don't believe it," muttered Crowley, "I don't believe what I'm hearing. What is it with you kids? I'll have you know, when I was your age..." He paused, and looked bemuse. "Did I just say, 'When I was your age'?" he mused to himself. "Did I actually just say that?"

As he considered this apparent symptom of his slide into old fartdom, a buzz of agitation caught his attention as a crowd began to gather.

"What the blazes is that all about?" he wondered out loud.

"Oh, that'll be Duke Anghaal and his brother," one of the young demons announced, standing up, "They've been wrestling for control of the family faction since forever. They're going to settle it today."

"There was an announcement from His Temporary Majesty, on Facehook," another one waved the informative device.

"Knock-down, drag-out, last one standing wins," confirmed a third. "Should be pretty spectacular."

"Oh, it'll be spectacular all right," yelped Crowley in alarm, "If those two go at it, they'll destroy something! Like half of Hell, Europe, and the Andromeda galaxy! Oh, Lucifer's bum!"

He sped off in the direction of the milling crowd, and pushed his way through. He could see Orgle at the middle of the crush.

"Orgle!" he shouted, "Stop them! Stop them!"

The fiend was too far away to hear him over the enthusiastic shouting of the crowd. He waved several of his large taloned paws for attention.

"Your Grace and Your Grace, are you ready?" he boomed over the noise.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" howled Crowley.

The desperate demon king pushed through the crowd, but he was too late. Orgle put a whistle on a string around his neck to one of his mouths, and...

Almost weeping with desperation, Crowley finally burst through to the front ranks of the screaming crowd who were clearly oblivious to their own impending doom...

He was somewhat bemused to find himself confronted with the sight of two of the most terrifying Senior demons of Hell's Hierarchy swinging ornate handbags at each other.

He stood, bemused, buffeted by the crowd as it cheered and catcalled and urged on both combatants.

It was a brutal exchange; the satchels were of thick, hard leather, with sharp angular corners and strategically placed rows of gems that were tasteful and discreet, but gave a whole new meaning to the terms 'blood diamond' and 'single cut'.

Crowley fought his way towards Orgle, who watched the fight closely, until the older brother landed a finishing blow to the side of his younger sibling's head, taking off an ear and a large chunk of scalp and sending the victim crashing to the floor in a spray of blood. Orgle counted him out.

"...Eight, nine, ten!" The fiend blew his whistle, then carefully took hold of Duke Anghaal's arm, and raised it. "His Grace retains control of the clan for the next Topside century!" he declared, as the crowd went wild, the faction members, sycophants and hangers-on milling around the winner to congratulate and bask in his victory, or the loser to commiserate, pick up pieces of missing flesh, and begin to plot a training regime that would see him defeat his brother a hundred Earthside years from now.

"What the fuck just happened?" Crowley asked nobody in particular.

"It was a foregone conclusion," a demon beside him opined. "Surely you didn't bet on Rhangar?"

"What that young fool was thinking, I'll never know," declared another. "What an idiot."

"He never took his training seriously, for a start," the first demon went on, "Not like Anghaal."

"I've seen Anghaal's regime," nodded yet another. "He puts all his consort's imps in his satchel and runs up and down the stairs of Good Intentions every day, and spends hours swinging it at the carcasses of Damned souls hanging from meathooks. Rhangar didn't stand a chance."

"A pity we'll have to wait another Topside century for a rematch," remarked yet another.

"I have heard tell that a most vicious disagreement between Dame Mephria and her brother's consort is brewing," the first demon related with relish, "An allegation about using false hair extensions on a champion show imp."

"Battling broads," grinned the training expert, "Always a great show!"

"So much more... creative than the gentlemen," observed another, "And, of course, the handbags are a lot prettier." There was a general murmur of agreement.

"The whole handbag thing has to be one of the best things that the new top guy has done," declared a demon.

"Cancelling Departmental meetings was pretty good," one pointed out.

"He's definitely an improvement on that last one," another snorted derisively, "What was the little toad's name? Was it Crawly? Or did I just think of him as a little worm?"

"His Temporary Majesty's Red Energy initiatives are inspiring," sighed another. "The whole Suggestion Box thing makes me feel like I matter to the Corporate Vision."

Utterly bemused, Crowley worked his way to Orgle's side.

"Mr Crowley!" Orgle beamed when he spotted his returned boss, and for a dreadful moment Crowley feared that the giant fiend would try to hug him. "Oh, Mr Crowley, it's so good to see you back!"

"I think you might be the only one who thinks so," Crowley replied sourly. "Orgle, what have you done? What was that all about? With the handbags?"

"Oh, it's something Mr Singer suggested," Orgle kept beaming, "When the Winchesters argue, he tells them to go outside to swing their handbags at each other. So I thought we could give it a try Down Here. So far, it's working quite well."

"Yes, well, jolly good," Crowley commented distractedly, "But what's all this about cancelling Departmental Meetings?"

"I had to," Orgle said regretfully, "Nobody liked them, Mr Crowley. The older demons never paid attention, and the younger ones, oh, it actively discouraged them from taking ownership of the Corporate Vision! They are the next generation of torturers, tormentors and tempters, Mr Crowley! We must engage them, and find ways to get them involved in committing personally to Hell's core business strategy!"

Crowley stared in horror at the evangelical light in Orgle's eyes.

"But you'll be wanting to get back to your office, and get back to running things!" chirped the fiend. "I know you'll be wanting to get straight back into the paperwork!" He set off for the office, Crowley scuttling along to catch up, a bewildered Dr Frankenstein wondering what he was supposed to do to stop the monster he had created.

Except the general public didn't want to attack this monster with pitchforks. As they went, demons of all levels called greetings to Orgle, who waved cheerfully to everybody, pausing here or there to admire a Hierarchy lady's new tactical purse, to ask a young demon how a particular iRack app was performing, or to clap a fellow fiend on the shoulder and ask how the new 'red' racks made of recycled Damned were performing in field conditions.

"Orgle!" and impetuous female voice called, "Orgle, I must speak with you!"

"Dame Ghazoria!" Orgle turned and beamed at the Hierarchy lady steaming towards him like a battleship in a velvet gown, "What can I do for you?"

"It's... oh," she caught sight of Crowley. "He's back," she noted flatly, in the sort of tone that other people used to say things like 'Oh, you stepped in dog poo again.'

"Yes, and 'he' is right here," griped Crowley, thoroughly annoyed.

"Mr Crowley is back to attend to the business of running Hell," announced Orgle.

Dame Ghazoria looked unimpressed. "Well, it's up to you whom you put on for clerical assistance, Your Temporary Majesty," she ventured, "But are you sure..."

"Clerical assistance?!" echoed Crowley incredulously, "_Clerical assistance_? I'll give _you_ clerical assistance, you snobby, uptight, rude... what is that?" he broke off and peered at the small fluffy... thing that poked its head out of her handbag. "Aaaargh! It's an imp!" he yelped, "It's a bloody imp! Madam, you have an imp in your handbag! Orgle, assist Her Grace at once, get that pest out of her bag!"

"This," Her Grace went on disdainfully, reaching down to stroke the fluffy little thing that chirped and waved at him, "Is Underworld Siren Scream."

"Hello, Tilly!" Orgle reached down to scratch the imp under the chin, and she chittered happily.

"It's an imp!" squawked Crowley again, his eyes boggling, "A bloody imp! They're not pets! They're vermin!" He peered at it more closely. "Why is it so... fluffy?"

"This bloodline has a particularly luxurious pelt, which is given much emphasis in the breed standard," sniffed Dame Ghazoria, as if she was speaking to a small child with a diagnosed learning disorder.

"Tilly is current Open She-Imp champion," Orgle informed him.

"_What?_" Crowley couldn't believe what he was hearing. "That's like grabbing a rat out of the nearest sewer, and saying 'Oh, this is Plaguepest Black Death, he's a champion sewer-rat, with particularly fascinating patterns of excrement smeared on his fur, and notice the way the scabs on his back spell out rude words, that's highly prized that is'..."

The Hierarchy lady gave Crowley a look conveying her belief that she'd rather meet Plaguepest Black Death than speak to the returned King of Hell. "As I was saying, Orgle," she turned an icy blast of ignoring on Crowley, "I wish to speak to you. I have been considering the matter of breeding from Tilly. I believe that your little companion would be ideal."

"Really? Phlegmgob?" Orgle sounded surprised, as another impossibly fluffy imp – this one had a cheerful blue bow tied into its pelt on the top of its head – emerged from somewhere in his pelt and climbed to his shoulder, where it blew a raspberry at Crowley and flipped him off.

Her Ladyship nodded. "With Verael's assistance, I have done some research into his pedigree," she went on, "He is descended from most impressive bloodlines."

"Yes, well, technically, you and I are both descended from ambitious sea slugs with aspirations of respiration," Crowley pointed out, "But that doesn't impress anybody..."

"You could show him, Orgle!" she went on emphatically, "His eyes, his bone structure, his proportions are excellent!" Phlegmgob preened under the praise.

"I don't think the show ring is really us," Orgle told her, "I just like Phlegmgob for himself. He's a wonderful companion. But if you think he'd throw good implets..."

"I think he would be a marvellous contribution to the breed improvement scheme," she stated firmly.

"Well, how about it, Phlegmgob?" Orgle asked the little creature. The imp chittered, gave him the thumbs up, scampered down from his shoulder and jumped into Dame Ghazoria's handbag, where a certain amount of muffled but happy whooping and chittering was vaguely audible.

"I'll just..." Crowley eyed the handbag, which wriggled and bumped like a sack full of slam-dancing ferrets, and made a break for his office.

Gedda the Hellpoodle was waiting to greet him enthusiastically. "Well, that's two of you who are glad to see me back," he told her mournfully. He fetched himself a bottle of Scotch, then sat at the desk, checking the paperwork sorted neatly into the IN, OUT, IGNORE, LAUGH OUT LOUD and SET FIRE trays.

Orgle had been busy. There were several requests to officiate at handbag duels between arguing demons, a letter of thanks from the Imp Association, a report on the 'red' rack's performance, an invitation to attend an online party on Facehook, and several forms that took him several moments to recognize, because he'd never actually seen one filled in before: they were Feedback forms from the website, telling Orgle what a good job he was doing.

"I'm sorry I took so long, Mr Crowley," Orgle apologised when he arrived just as Crowley was halfway through the bottle, "But everybody wanted to talk to me! I am in awe of you, Mr Crowley! I don't know how you do this job!"

"That's not a problem I have, Orgle," Crowley told him sadly, scratching Gedda's ears, "Nobody ever wants to stop me for a chat. Smack me in the back of the head and yell abuse, yes, but not chat..." He looked up, bewildered. "What did you _do_ here, Orgle?"

"I did just what you said, Mr Crowley," Orgle announced proudly, "I fooled some of the people all of the time, and jerked the rest off." He looked thoughtful. "They didn't seem to enjoy it much," he confessed, "Maybe I wasn't doing it properly. But it definitely stopped them complaining..."

"Yes, well, well done holding the fort Orgle," Crowley waved a hand as Orgle beamed under the praise. "Everybody seems to be remarkably... contented with things. If we weren't in Hell, I'd almost say that everyone seems to be... happy."

"We did our best, didn't we?" Orgle said shyly, gesturing to Gedda and Jimi.

"Why don't you take Jimi home?" suggested Crowley, slumping onto the sofa. "I'm sure he's keen to get back to his own family."

"I think he's enjoyed himself, Mr Crowley," commented Orgle. Jimi, who was sitting on the sofa and chewing on a pair of trousers of the style favoured by many of the senior demons, looked up, and woofed cheerfully at the fiend. "I think it's been a marvellous learning opportunity for him. It would be wonderful if we could arrange that sort of thing more often. The scope for professional development is enormous..."

Crowley gazed in a mixture of awe and despair at Hell's newest and most appreciated corporate champion.

There was a knock at the door. In sheer surprise, because nobody ever bothered to knock – they just barged in and started yelling at him – Crowley answered it.

The senior demon who stood there gave him the sort of 'Oh-look-dog-poo' appraisal that Dame Ghazoria had done. "Oh, it's you," he sneered, "You're back."

"Yes, I am back," Crowley straightened up, and put on his cockiest smile, "And I have cancelled all my appointments for today, which, seeing as nobody ever makes them anyway, means..."

"Get out of the way, you gibbering idiot," the demon pushed past him, "I'm here to talk to the fella in charge."

"I am the fella in charge!" snapped Crowley.

"Not any more," the demon smirked, "Orgle is running things now. He's very good at it. Respectful. Doesn't give himself airs and graces. We don't need you, Crowley." The demon cocked his head, and looked thoughtful. "In fact, now we have Orgle, I wonder why we are keeping you around..."

With a strength and speed borne of a strong sense of self-preservation, Crowley bundled the demon back out the door, and locked it. "Orgle!" he called cheerfully, "Be a good chap, and take Jimi home right now, would you?"

"I'm on it, Mr Crowley!" replied Orgle dutifully, calling to the Winchesters' dog, and disappearing in a streak of greasy vapour.

Crowley grabbed his bottle of Scotch, and seated himself on his bidet to think. Orgle had, by dint of just being his usual diligent self, become the admired Acting Monarch of Hell. Which made Crowley expendable. He had to find a way to get rid of the fiend. He could tolerate no rival for power in Hell. It was brutal, but that was how it worked – there was only room for one silverback in the Infernal troop, only room for one top dog in the pack, only room for one badly acted immortal Scotsman. Orgle had to go.

He thought of the way that all the fiend's mouths had smiled when Crowley returned, and sighed. The universe hated him, it really did...

Or maybe not. Because at that moment, it threw him an inspiration...

He grabbed for his cell, and dialled quickly. "Hello? Castiel? Yes! It's me! Er, yes, I miss you too, big brother...no, I haven't repented, sorry, but I do have something to ask you about. Are you still having trouble with the security of your database?"

* * *

Torturing Crowley is turning out to be almost as fun as torturing Sam. Who knew?

We're nearly there! We can get Clifford over the line! Come on, little plot bunny, just one more chapter to finish it off!

Reviews are the Winchesters Swinging Their Handbags At Each Other In A Wading Pool Of Jelly For Your Amusement At The After Hours Party Of Life!*

*The less depraved Denizens may join me for daiquiris over there in the corner way out of jelly range. We can play with the document processor instead. *surreptitiously fondles recirculating feeder*


	17. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

The Winchesters were on the road again, headed for their next job in Asscrack, Vermont...

"You are disgusting," snapped Sam, with a Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often) so vehement that Dean was sure he could hear it.

"She was insistent," he countered unrepentantly, grinning.

"You were supposed to be a monk!" Sam went on, "You know, religious order, vows of poverty, obedience, and chastity?"

"I was supposed to be a postulant," Dean corrected him, "That was your idea, since you didn't think I could convince anybody I was a monk."

"Being right all the time can be so annoying," Sam humphed.

"I did convince her!" Dean protested, "She was convinced enough to ask me for some spiritual guidance..."

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" retorted Sam trenchantly.

"...Then she was convinced enough to tell me that she thought I should question my vocation," Dean went on breezily.

"So, not all of Clan McLeod of Canisbay are devout Catholics, it would seem," Sam noted.

"Well, clearly, she was a very spiritual person," Dean waved a hand airily, "And she was keen to worship with the Living Sex God..."

"It's weird, is what it is," Sam shuddered, "Women with a thing for the clergy."

"It's a lot more common than you think," Dean informed him cheerfully, "I've met a number of women who like the whole corrupting a man of the cloth thing, either for real, or just dress-ups for naughty fun. Maybe they like the idea of being so desirable, they can make a celibate guy change his mind. You might know that if you got out and got some more often. You need to get laid, Sam. Nun outfits can be cute, too. Remember where we had to deal with that haunted church in Ohio? Well, the priest's housekeeper was..."

"Dean," Sam growled warningly.

"She was an ex-nun," Dean went on sunnily, oblivious to the clouds of disapproval swirling around the summit of Mount Sam, "Said she'd realised that the non-worldly life just wasn't for her, and can I get a hallelujah for that, it would've been a crying shame for her to be locked up in a convent..."

"Dean..."

"She'd kept the habit, and it was kind of a turn-on..."

"Dean..."

"And she said that she was just grateful she'd never been expected to spank children, like the nuns had spanked her when she was at a convent school, so I asked her if she'd like to hear me practise my Latin, and maybe if I got my declensions wrong, she could..."

"Dean..."

"And what that woman knew about conjugations, wow, it was enough to make your infinitive mood tense..."

"Dean!" Sam fired off a Bitchface #6™ (I SO Do NOT Want To Hear The Gory Details Of One Of Your Sexual Conquests, Jerk). "You do realise that if Grandma Margaret McLeod finds out, you are as good as dead?" Sam told him brother. "They network, Dean. Like Bobby said, never, ever underestimate the clout wielded by elderly women in black dresses..."

"Grandma Margaret was much too busy adoring you and Bobby to notice anything," scoffed Dean, "In fact, the way she kept staring at you, 'Father' this, and 'Father' that, I wouldn't be surprised if she'd have some thoughts to confess this week..."

"Dean!" yapped Sam, blushing. "That's gross!"

"She's descended from Crowley, remember," Dean's insinuating eyebrows waggled, "What's a few decades' age difference to someone with a bloodline like that?"

"Jerk," Sam muttered.

"So, tell me about our next job," Dean smiled angelically at his scowling brother. Sam hesitated for a moment. "Well?" Dean prompted.

"It sounds like another haunting," Sam told him.

"A salt and burn then," Dean nodded, "Jimi always enjoys a job where he gets the chance to have a good dig. Don't you, J-Man?" On the back seat of the Impala, Jimi sprawled contentedly, still chewing on the remains of the trousers he'd been shredding when Orgle had brought him back Topside. "So, who's our angry ghost?"

Sam hesitated again before answering. "Er, it's...Mother Superior Euphesima. Risen to trouble the living of the Carmelite convent she once oversaw, some decades ago..."

"Oh, hey, nuns!" Dean grinned enthusiastically, "So, why is Mama Youfizzy up and at 'em now?"

"Er," Sam's face flushed again, "There has been some whisper of scandal at this particular convent. Mentions of... lewd behaviour..."

"Lewd nuns!" laughed Dean, as Sam scowled again. "I love this job! So, what's our cover?"

"Well, they're kind of wary about admitting males at any time, and especially now," Sam explained, "But they do have legitimate visits from the Carthusians, from time to time. So our best shot is, uh, doing the whole clergy thing, I was thinking, one monk, one Vatican scholar to assist..."

"Oh yeah!" Dean's grin went nearly twice around his head. "Amen to that, brother! Hey, I can be the brother, can't I?" he enthused.

"Dean, given the nature of the problem, and the nature of, well, you, I'm not sure that it would be a good idea," Sam replied reluctantly. "Maybe we should wait until we can think up something else..."

"Come on, Sam," wheedled Dean, "Somebody might get hurt if we wait, and I couldn't live with that. And nobody's gonna believe I'm any sort of scholar, let alone one from the Vatican! Plus, I rock the whole man-dress thing!"

Sam sighed. "Promise me," he insisted with a pained expression, "Promise me, that you will not do anything... untoward with any of the nuns, if any of them are, uh, compromising their vows, that might provoke this angry spirit."

"Had it occurred to you that provoking her might be a good way to get to her?" Dean's eyebrows waggled lewdly again. "I could distract her, while you and Jimi salt and burn her..."

"I give up," Sam groaned. "Just don't get yourself killed, all right?"

Dean promised not to, and remained obnoxiously cheerful about the job for the next few days.

In fact, he remained obnoxiously cheerful, right up until the moment they were standing at the front door of the Carmelite chapterhouse, Sam wearing suitably sombre clothes and glasses, and Dean wearing an off-white habit and the Killer Smile...

Sam rang the bell to summon the porteress. "Oh, one more thing, Dean," he specified, "Remember, you're a Carthusian monk, so let me introduce you to Mother Superior."

"Sure, Sammy," Dean beamed, "Gotta follow the right order of precedence if we're gonna be convincing, right?"

"It's not the correct order of precedence we need to stick to," Sam told him, a radiant 'gotcha!' smile crossing his face, "But the thing is, Carthusians take a vow of silence..."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

She was very junior as demons went, a soul so newly warped and broken that you could still see the cracks, but now she was truly a native of the Pit, she understood how things worked. She might as well as make the best of it, which meant starting the long, brutal struggle that every demon had to undertake, to claw its way up the pecking order, usually over the bleeding and cursing bodies of fellow demons.

Of course, in the modern day Inferno, there was also opportunity for a young, upwardly (or should that be, downwardly?) mobile go-getter, one with drive, and energy, and ideas, and a feel for exploitation of the Corporate Mission and Vision.

And she had An Idea.

It was a brilliant idea, if she did say so herself. It would revolutionise the conduct of temptation deals Topside. It would do away with the need for demons to skulk around, waiting for the dealmakers to come to them. It would even make DEAL obsolete. To most people, it would just look like another e-mail scam, but to the gullible, the vulnerable and the determinedly wicked, it would make the Nigerian bank account scheme look like a jar full of pennies...

She arrived at the Suggestion Box to post her idea.

It wouldn't go in.

She frowned, and tried again.

It quickly became apparent that the reason her suggestion form wouldn't go in was because the slot in the top of the box had been glued shut.

Annoyed, she pulled out her cell, but the e-form on the website was down too. She tried her Splatter account; the boss had set up #maintenance, and they were usually pretty good if you splatted a problem, any irritating little things like that tended to be dealt with a lot more quickly than they had in the past. Unfortunately, she couldn't get a signal for that, either.

Never mind, she thought, knocking on the door, she could just hand it to the boss. He was all right, she'd decided, right he'd cancelled the Departmental meetings, and he always seemed to be happy to stop and talk to anybody...

"Just a moment!" came a cheerful voice, then the door was opened by a well-presented man wearing an expensive tailored suit, a silk shirt, a cashmere tie and a sunny smile. The overall effect was marred somewhat by the spray pack strapped to his back. "Don't mind me," he told her, poking the spray wand under the desk. "Just carry on, pip pip and all that, what?"

"Oh, hi," she said distractedly, looking for His Temporary Majesty – he was pretty difficult to miss, and he was in the habit of remembering everybody's names, but there was no happy booming greeting. "Er, what are you doing?"

"Spraying for imps," the cheerful man informed her, sticking the wand under the sofa. "Nasty little buggers. We've got a positive infestation of the damned things... oh, look there's one in your handbag. Here, let me give it a quick squirt..."

"Hey! Don't do that!" she snapped, as her frightened imp chittered and shot back into her handbag, pulling the flap closed after it. "I'll report you to Orgle! Where is he, anyway? I got a suggestion for the Suggestion Box, but I can't get a splat to maintenance, and the website was down this morning."

"I'm afraid we are having network difficulties at the moment," the happy man practically sang, "Apparently, the main server bank has picked up a case of fire axe."

"Fire axe?" she looked confused. "I'm one of the IDIOTs, but I haven't heard of that – is it some new Trojan that the HERALDs sent us to test our system?"

"No, I went down there this morning, and put a fire axe through the things. Several times," he informed her smilingly. "I pretended I could hear them screaming. You know, I believe I may actually have giggled, actually giggled, with glee as I did it."

"But... how will we run our iRacks now?" she demanded.

"You won't," he informed her smugly, "You'll have to go down to the Lower Circles, the way demons are supposed to."

"Screw that! I hate it down there!" she snapped.

"Yes, you see, that's just the trouble with Young People Today," Crowley shook his head sadly, "They have no understanding of traditional values. Which is why, as of today, I have decided to embrace my inevitable slide into Grumpy Old Codgerdom. I may just get myself a comfortable pair of tartan slippers. So, every demon under the age of 200 Topside years will be required to attend a compulsory excursion, where you will leave behind your gizmos, gadgets and iThingys, and you will learn to do things the old fashioned way, with an actual pointy stick, an actual blunt scalpel, an actual unripe pineapple, and by the time you finish I expect you to be able to tell a thymus gland from a lymph node, and a lobe of liver from a spleen..."

"Well, I'm not going," she stated, "It's nasty down there! It's hot, it's noisy, and the whole place smells of decaying shit!"

"Exactly," grinned Crowley, "Which is why I'm calling it Scat Camp."

"Get out of my way," she snarled, pushing past. "Orgle! Orgle! Hey, man, where are you?" She looked around the inner office, but the fiend was nowhere to be seen. All that was there was a name badge, with the three little gold skull pips to show that he had once held the sash and tiara for Indispensable Drudge Of The Month for his Circle three times in the same century.

She whirled. "What have you done with Orgle?" she demanded.

He advanced on her, impicide spray wand raised. "Orgle?" he purred dangerously. "I'm afraid Orgle isn't working here any more..."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Thomariel surveyed his class of fledglings as they clustered around to welcome their newest...

"I'm afraid I don't even know what to call him," shrugged the celestial flight instructor, as the little angels welcomed their newest addition.

"Foster-brother might do for a working title," suggested Castiel. "He is on secondment as a special attachment, helping the HERALDS with the new HOLIER database. His knowledge of such things is proving invaluable, and he is generous with it."

"Hello, foster-brother!" chirped one of the little fledglings, hugging one of the new arrival's legs.

"You are really big!" commented another one. "Look how big your wings are!"

"I bet they can let you fly really really high!" declared another one.

"They are very pretty," decided another. "All those reds and purples..."

"We can help you practise!" suggested another angel. "We can demonstrate for you! See, we can do first position... and some flapping..."

"This is a most... unusual arrangement, Castiel," said Thomariel doubtfully, watching as the class demonstrated the basic flight practice moves, and cooed encouragement as the new student copied them.

"They seem happy to accept him," Castiel pointed out, "And he is eager to learn, and willing to try. He is an... individual with a good heart."

"Very well, then," Thomariel agreed, "Perhaps it would be prudent for someone to be on hand to offer assistance, just in case..."

"I'll do that," commented Gabriel, suddenly popping into manifestation with his usual infuriating grin firmly in place, "I heard there was a new kid, and you know I can't resist them at this age... oh, Dad, is that him? He's just adorable!" The class giggled, and their newest member blushed and smiled shyly. "Hey, get me a ladder so I can pinch his cheek..."

"I shall leave you to your lesson," Castiel took his leave from the class, and Gabriel sprang into the air as Thomariel opened the gate in the cliff fencing.

"All right, then," the instructor said as the youngest pupil stepped forward, "Now, just like we practised, maximise your aspect ratio, keep your pinions firm..."

"Just do it, kiddo!" called Gabriel, hovering a short distance away, "Heralds are naturals!"

He took a deep breath, and stepped into the gap...

"Come to big brother!" cheered Gabriel, holding out his hands.

He jumped towards the beckoning Archangel, his wings snapping out, the encouragement of his classmates lifting him up...

Gabriel was right. He was a natural.

Orgliel, Foster-Angel-On-Secondment of the Lord, flapped his wings, and soared.

**THE** **END**

* * *

*squelch*

And so we say goodbye to Clifford, the most reticent and recalcitrant raconteurial rodent I've had to deal with for quite some time. He was, frankly, something of a special needs plot bunny, but the important thing is, he got there in the end, in his own time, in his own way, and gave us a story, and for that, we thank him, even as we stomp him.

So, now that bunny is gone, I suppose we just have to wait for the next one to paddle ashore and take up residence where I can't ignore it. At the moment, there's nothing in particular on the horizon, but don't be fooled, ninja bunnies can hide then pop out of nowhere. And I believe that some of the Denizens were agitating for the story of Lars & Lemmy's first Hunt...

But presumably, before then, the DDD&SSS will need an outing. Le sigh; Denizens – they're depraved, but they get shit done. Mind you, Sam and Dean weren't terribly traumatised this time around. Will the DDD&SSS find something to do? Or will they storm the lounge-room, commandeer the remote and hang around monopolising Bobby's connection to Hell TV's Alternative Reality channel? What do you think? Just think of the possibilities – a game show called Sam-In-A-Box would be just the start...

Meanwhile, please send Clifford off in style – Reviews are the Tasteful Floral Ornaments On The Grave Of The Stomped Plot Bunnies Inspiring The Stories Of Life!*

*If you must, you may have the Winchester Of Your Choice In Clerical Dress officiating at the funeral.


	18. SPECIAL BONUS FEATURE!

_**OH NOES!**_

It only recently came to my attention that 'In A Flap' is still not marked as Complete. So I checked it out, and discovered...

There is something missing! The end-of-story SPECIAL BONUS FEATURE!

Oh the shame. The ignominy. The opprobrium. The sheer... assbuttness.

So, with much grovelling apology, I append the finishing touch on this story, and beg the patience and the forgiveness of the Denizens (smarm smarm). I thought I'd pick up on a TV channel that enjoyed a certain popularity in the Jimiverse a while back...

* * *

**SPECIAL BONUS FEATURE: Deleted Scene From End Of 'In A Flap' !**

_In Bobby's kitchen_

**Crowley:** I cannot tell you, Bobby, I cannot tell you how traumatised the whole episode has left me.

**Bobby: **I cannot tell you, Crowley, I cannot tell you how many fucks I do not give.

**Sam:** I miss the celestial libraryyyyyyyyy *sniff*

**Dean:** Computers! Evil computers! Naked Austrian dudes from the future! Not cool! Totally not cool!

**Crowley:** I will have nightmares about flying lessons for decades!

**Sam: **All those stationery items! Perfectly sorted! That catalogue! That desk! Oh, God, that desk... *he makes small throaty moaning noises of thwarted desire*

**Dean:** Naked dudes! Thermonuclear war! Lack of pod rotation! They're evil! Evil! EVIL! Stop that, Sam, it's totally disturbing.

*Bobby sighs heavily. He notices a white van pull up outside. Shortly afterwards there is a knock at the door. He goes to answer it. The Denizens are assembled on his porch. They sing their jingle.

**Denizens:** Do you find you're being pestered by a whining King of Hell?  
Are you finding that the whining's from your Winchesters as well?  
Call DDD&SSS plus Crowley Calm Collective,  
We're local and we're prompt and we will give them some perspective.

**Bobby:** You got your work cut out; right now, they all need a nice hot cup of get a fucking grip.

**Darla M:** We of Denizens' Dean Destressing and Sam Soothing Services...

**Hesta101:** ... with the assistance of the Crowley Calm Collective...

**Darla M** :...Are here to assist you. See? I have a clipboard. *she waves clipboard with great authority*

**Georgia:** We shall do this by careful utilisation of the very latest in gratitude re-establishment expanded perspective theorising therapy.

**Avalonemyst:** Also known as 'It Could Be Worse, So Shut Up'.

**ccase13:** Would you care to peruse a glossy brochure? *proffers glossy brochure*

**KnightJelly:** We use the very latest in interactive-projective-subjective diabolo-audio-visual media, in the comfort and privacy of your own home!

*The Denizens all nod authoritatively*

**stupidnickel:** Our technician is standing by to assist you, and answer your questions!

**Ciya:** Just as soon as he's finished overhauling the motor on the custard tub filter.

*The Blue Orleans pops his head out of the van, and gives a cheerful thumbs up.*

**Bobby:** Well, I'm prepared to try anything at this point, so, go to it.

*Denizens return to the van. The come back with popcorn, choc top ice-creams, and large packets of potato chips. They hustle into the living room, grabbing the Winchesters and Crowley on the way.*

_In the living room_

**Sam and Dean:** Aaaaaaaargh!

**Crowley:** Unhand me, you viragos, you termagants, you harridans!

**Darla M:** Now now, this is all part of your therapy. To make you feel less distressed.

**Anj Emm:** About being angelified, or separated from the celestial library for the rest of your mortal life, or the thought of naked dude robots from the future enslaving you.

**Sam, Dean and Crowley: ** AAAAAAAARGH!

*The Denizens settle on and around the sofas, with the Winchesters and Crowley jammed in with them. The Technician pokes around behind the TV, connecting it to a netbook, while talking into his cell.*

**The Blue Orleans:** Yeah... yeah... okay, we got a signal now, thanks Orgle, I owe you one. Give me a call next time you need to upgrade your copiers, I'll see what I can do for you.

**Bobby:** So, how does this work exactly?

**Leahelisabeth:** Via the magic of HELL-TV, we show them, in alternative realities, how much worse it could all have been!

**Nyx Ro:** Than being angelified, or separated from the celestial library for the rest of your mortal life, or the thought of naked dude robots from the future enslaving you.

**Sam, Dean and Crowley: ** AAAAAAAARGH!

**Lampito:** Do pull up a pew, Mr Singer. *waves snacks enticingly* Would you care for some... popcorn?

**Bobby:** You are a siren, madam. Do we have any corn chips?

**Lampito (panting):** Oh, you silver-tongued seducer...

*grabs the remote, turns on TV, and starts to channel surf*

_click_

Scene: game show set, cheesy music playing

Gabriel, wearing a loud suit, bounced down the stairs to the screaming cheers of the audience.

"Gooooood evening, ladies and gentlemen and rabid fangirls!" he beamed. "And welcome to tonight's episode of Sam-In-A-Box! Let's meet tonight's contestant, Dean, as he frantically searches for his brother, who we've tied up and stuffed into one of these boxes… hey, who gave the contestant a bottle of holy oil? Hey, put the lighter away, pal!"

**Leahelisabeth:** SQUEEEEEE!

**elfinblue:** Oh, let's have something else… *she snatches the remote*

click

Scene: the office of the Sheriff of Heaven

Crowliel eyed the door of the Sheriff of Heaven's office, his wings twitching in agitation, then squared his shoulders, and knocked.

"Come in, Crowliel," called Castiel.

"Castiel," Crowliel began timidly, "I really don't think I'm ready for this..."

"Have some faith in yourself, little brother," Castiel looked up from his desk, and smiled fondly at Heaven's most recently fully-fledged angel. "You are an Angel of the Lord, a Messenger of Heaven. Your training wheels came off a week ago. Now, I need a Herald to inform Senior Librarian Danael that her preferred brand of ink is out of stock and the latest parchment delivery has been delayed..."

_click_

Scene: an untidy yet cosy office in a monastery

Brother Sebastian tried to keep his features from forming the expression that he knew his abbot would refer to as a bitchface, but it was difficult. For some reason, this man had been making him have uncharitable (and occasionally homicidal) thoughts since they were both first professed monks. Forty-odd years later, Father Abbot still taught his Latin classes more like a stand-up comedy act, and even through the thick stone walls of the monastery, the howls of laughter would interrupt Brother Sebastian's theology lectures...

"Reverend Father," he began politely enough, "I must insist that you speak to the novices!"

"Yeah?" Father Dean looked up at him cheerfully. "I do, you know. Just about every day. To claim the last bit of bacon at breakfast, usually, it's good to be the king. You know, I think that if, at the next ecumenical council, we could get the Muslims and the Jews to sit down and eat bacon sandwiches together, we could sort out this whole mess in the Middle East in a day or so, bacon is just that awesome..."

"Reverend Father," the senior monk pressed on, "I meant about the... vandalism of the gargoyles."

"I'd hardly call it 'vandalism'," replied the abbot in a reasonable tone. "Knocking their wings off, spray-painting gang symbols on them, that would be vandalism. Putting lacy brassieres on them, not so much."

"Reverend Father," Sebastian said through his teeth, "It's hardly appropriate!"

"You're telling me," snorted Dean, "The idea of going up a ladder in one of these man-dresses is enough to make me shudder. How they got up there on the roof in cassocks, that's ingenious. And ballsy."

"But hardly appropriate!" yapped Brother Sebastian. "Dean, we are supposed to be educating these young men to be Men of God, and we should not be tolerating..."

"Harmless pranks?" The greying abbot cocked an amused eyebrow. "Look, Seb, we get these young guys in here, and we tell them, 'Right, get it into your heads, you're never going to have sex again'. That probably doesn't matter to you, because you're not normal, but for the rest of us, that's a tough call! I haven't had sex for forty-six years, Seb! You gotta have a way to let off steam, especially at their age. There'll be plenty of time to turn them into grumpy old farts like us. They gotta come to it because they want to, not because somebody is nagging them about it."

"Your brother would not have tolerated this!" hissed Brother Sebastian.

"That's because my brother is not normal, like you," grinned his abbot infuriatingly. "I swear, he gets more impure thoughts from being up to the eyeballs in the Vatican archives than he ever did from sex. Did I ever tell you about the time I caught him with a thesaurus when we were kids?"

_click_

Scene: The Throne Room of Hell, renamed The Unattractive Office by the incumbent Lord Of Perdition

"Yeeheeeeee!"

Duke Anghaal looked around a little uncomfortably; Lucifer had held court here, but had done the daily business of ruling Hell (that is, the scheming, the plotting, the double-dealing, the back-stabbing and the playing off of the various factions of the demonic Hierachy) secretively. The Boy King did just about everything in the open, where anyone who cared to listen in could do so.

"Wheeeeeeee!"

If they could hear themselves think over the background noise, anyway...

"Lord Samuel," he began, "There have been... reports of a... an unseemly nature, reports of... conduct not becoming... not becoming the... not..." he glanced irritably towards the source of the happy cries.

"Something the matter, Your Grace?" His Infernal Majesty turned his deceptively boyish smile towards the old demon noble. Anghaal paused; the appearance of the dimples was always a signal to proceed with caution, like a dog raising its hackles, or a lawyer brandishing a writ.

"To be frank, Lord Samuel, yes," he pressed on, "What I was trying to say, whilst being..."

"Yahooooo!"

"Rather crassly interrupted is that this sort of... conduct is not..."

"Yeeeeeha!"

"Becoming of the gravitas and state of Your Majesty's seat of power..."

"Look at me, Sam! Look at me!"

Looking up from his paperwork, the Lord of Hell turned his gaze to the bright yellow bouncy castle. His big brother was bouncing enthusiastically, beaming a beautiful smile, radiating the simple, all-consuming happiness of a child having fun in the moment.

"Duke Anghaal," His Infernal Majesty said indulgently, "When we were growing up, my brother had barely any opportunity to be a child. That was largely because, while he was still a chid himself, he was charged with my protection, and took that very seriously. It's such a small thing for me to do, to allow him a measure of the happiness he deserved, but never had then." He turned a doting expression towards his brother.

"Backflip!" shrieked Dean, doing it, his eyes flashing black with simple joy.

"Nice one, bro!" the Boy King laughingly called back. "Just don't break anything. Or anybody." The self-appointed guardian of the King of Hell flipped off the Ruler Of Dis, drawing gasps of horror from some of the demonic nobility, but another laugh from the Younger Who Was Greater.

"Nonetheless, Majesty," Anghaal pressed on, "There have been reports of more than... bouncing on the, er, recreational inflatable."

Lord Samuel looked confused. "Whatever can you mean, Your Grace?"

"I refer, my lord, to, to..." Anghaal was no coward, but he wasn't a fool either, "I refer to, acts of a... an unseemly nature. Lewd behaviour. Ribald undertakings. Unfit to grace Your Majesty's inner sanctum."

The Boy King's expression turned to one of the terrifyingly pinched scowls that would make the most senior noble quail. "Dean," he called, 'You been sneakin' in here after hours and banging chicks on the bouncy castle again?"

"Yeah," his brother replied, his expression suggesting that the question was quite stupid.

"Why, Dean?" sighed His Infernal Majesty.

"Duh," Dean rolled his eyes, "I'm the big brother of the most evil fucker in all of Creation, I'll fornicate anywhere, you know that! Fuck, I'd fornicate anywhere before we tore the gate open and took over this joint! There was this one time, Dad and I were Hunting this angry ghost attached to this carnival, and there was a bouncy castle, and..."

_click_

Scene: the small Heavenly office of Danariel, Guardian of Companions, angel with oversight of the souls of deceased pets who are Waiting until their owners die and come to claim them

"Can't somebody else go?" begged Crowliel.

"Castiel has assigned you, Crowliel," Danariel reminded her little brother. "And Senior Librarian Danael will expect it. Surely you don't want one of her lectures on the importance of maintaining good diplomatic relations between pantheons."

"No," mumbled Crowliel, fiddling with his harp resentfully.

"So," she smiled, "We must send a note apologising for Jimi Senior stealing Mjolnir. Again. Look, you know they won't be angry about it. Thor is a dog person. He thinks it's funny. He's quite fond of Jimi. This is a wonderful opportunity for you."

"If it's such an opportunity, why don't you go?" Crowliel pouted most unangelically.

"Because," big sister Danariel explained with the infinite patience borne of dealing with the souls of pets who did everything from sharpen their claws on her robe to dig holes in the Firmament, "I am not a messenger. Besides which, on the occasions when I have met Thor, he has pinched my bottom..."

"He hugged me last time," complained Crowliel, "He hugged me, and ruffled my wings, and I can personally attest that he most certainly smells like a dog person. And he forced the most awful alcoholic beverage on me – drinking it isn't enough, you have to wear as much as you imbibe – and insisted that I stay to eat a chunk of barely-singed dead deer with my hands. I got barbeque sauce all over my robe! And the womenfolk, good grief, Freya did worse than pinch my arse, and Odin, that old goat, just laughed like a loon..."

"Well, why don't you take Jimi Senior with you this time?" suggested Danariel, "The Aesir love him, he visits them so often."

"I'm not taking him!" yelped Crowliel, "He chases Heralds, you know... oh, no, speak of the devil – or the hellhound – and he shall appear..."

As if he'd heard his name, Jimi Senior, the ex-hellhound Waiting for Dean Winchester, came galumphing into view, a big doggy grin on his face and the light of pursuit in his eyes.

"Just throw him a liver treat and dodge," instructed Danariel, "It's what all the other Heralds do."

"It doesn't seem to work!" shrieked Crowliel, clumsily taking flight as the dog woofed happily, jumped, and landed with a mouthful of feathers. "Aaaaaaaaargh!"

"Crowliel, honestly, he's just trying to be friendly," Danariel reprimanded him gently, "Enjoy him while you can – according to his file, Dean Winchester will be here to fetch him in less than fifty Earthly years..."

"AAAAAAAAAARGH!"

_click_

Scene: the backstage mayhem of a major fashion show at London's Fashion Week about to get underway

"Go on, out!" Gabriel waved a hand imperiously at the two cowering toadies from the opposition, "Tell Luggage Woman and Polo Man to keep their nipped-and-tucked noses the hell out of here!" Castiel simply stared at them until they complied.

"I wish you'd let me tell Sam," Gabriel complained to his fellow PA, "I never get tired of seeing the Evil Overlord deal with the minions of the competition."

"He prefers to deal directly with their overlords," Castiel reminded him. "For example, I bring to your attention the bright orange faux leather suitcase that he had specially made and sent to Ms Versace, or the truckload of anti-wrinkle cream he dispatched to Mr Lagerfeld, when they made disparaging remarks about his last winter's designs."

"Creative on the runway, creative in his insults," agreed Gabriel happily. "He is truly a talented individual. Do you know how many strings I had to pull to get those presents delivered in the middle of their shows?"

"Besides, your 'Evil Overlord' is with his eyebrow technician," intoned Castiel seriously, "And you know that he does not like to be disturbed during those consultations."

"Nah, you just gotta know how to approach it," Sam Winchester's famously unflappable PA said dismissively. "You don't tell him in a way that sounds like, 'Hey, I'm here to interrupt you', you make it like, 'Hey, I got an opportunity for you to throw a couple of spies out with your bare hands!'. That sneaking little snake from Galliano actually wet himself when confronted with The Bitchface. And frankly, I think a bit of stress relief is good for him just before a major show. Speaking of being thoroughly disturbed, though," he looked around, Where's your lord and master?"

"CAAAAAAAS!" the world's most in-demand male supermodel could often be heard well before he could be seen, usually complaining bitterly about some hapless make-up artist not using the exactly correct shade of mascara. "CAAAAAAS! Hey, has anybody seen my Man Thursday?"

"I am right here, Dean," replied the PA, just as unflappable as Gabriel.

"You got my sushi?" asked Dean, rustling up in one of his younger brother's most daring creations, a retinue of harrassed-looking dressers trailing after him.

"It is right here also, Dean."

"And some tempura prawns for my main man Jimi?" The chubby little Chihuahua snuggling under Dean's arm wagged his tail. "He's been traumatised. He needs to be soothed, don't you, Jiminy-Wiminy? Here, you go have lunchies with Uncle Cas." With a flounce, he handed the dog to Castiel. "She was so rude to him, that bitch!"

"To be fair, Jimi did bite Miss Campbell," Castiel pointed out.

"Well, she shouldn't have sat in his chair," sniffed Dean, as a gopher brushed dog hair off his sleeve and a woman with a tailed comb tried fruitlessly to get at his hair. "Cross her off the list for my launch."

"I shall do that immediately," acknowledged Castiel, tapping at his PDA.

"And those orange people," mumbled Dean as his chief make-up artist caught up with him and fussed with his lip gloss, "Anybody who looks like an oompa-loompa, they're totally out."

"That will thin the guest list considerably," his PA commented.

"And that asshole, what'shisname, from, you know, French scent bunch," Dean flapped a hand irritably.

"St Laurent?" prompted Castiel. "Givenchy? Lauder? Lancome? Dior? Hermes?"

"Cross 'em all off, just to make sure," instructed Dean.

"At this rate, there won't be anybody allowed at your fragrance launch," Sam said from behind him, with amusement. "Although what that little greaser from Harper's just offered to do if I could get her an invitation, well, decency forbids me to disclose."

"Screw them all," Dean humphed smugly, "It'll sell because it's awesome, whoever's there. A proper male fragrance, none of that flowery shit. Hot engine, oil, and top notes of exhaust – beats me why nobody ever thought of it before."

"Certainly, presales of Essence of Exxon have gone through the ceiling," noted Gabriel.

"Mr Winchester," an exasperated dresser turned to the world's most successful fashion designer, "Would you please ask your older brother to hold still so we can get him ready?"

"She has a point, bro," Sam said, stepping in to tweak at the garment Dean was wearing, "Jesus, who pinned this? I'm gonna start writing instructions in crayon!" He grumblingly brushed the dressers aside, and arranged the outfit to his satisfaction. "Okay. Now, do something with his mascara."

"What's wrong with my mascara?" demanded Dean, suddenly panicked. "Oh, fuck, they haven't put blue-black on me again, have they? ARE YOU PEOPLE INBRED? HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO SAY IT, MY EYES ARE GREEN!"

"Whoa, chill, bro," soothed Sam, "You just need a bit on your lower lashes, that's all. Just to balance it out." The music started, and Dean flounced away, entourage of arrangers, decorators and hangers-on wafting off with him, with Castiel a small spot of calm amidst the storm, shooing them along like a trenchcoated sheepdog carefully herding skittish sheep.

"Her from Vogue is in the front row," observed Gabriel, peeking through the curtains.

"Good," Sam grinned in a predatory fashion, "I'll go sit next to her, and smile at her. A frappacino says I can make her drop her notebook."

"Done," grinned Gabriel. "With extra sprinkles if you make her cry."

_click_

**Sam, Dean and Crowley:** **AAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!**

**Bobby:** Heh heh.

**Sam:** I don't want to be a fashion designer!

**Dean:** I don't want to be a monk! _FORTY-SIX YEARS!_

**Crowley:** I don't want to be Crowliel!:

**Georgia:** Well, you're not. See how much worse alternative realities could be? So, get a grip.

**Avalonemyst:** Because if you don't, we will.

**ccase:** Therapeutically of course.

**Sam, Dean and Crowley:** _**AAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!**_

**KnightJelly:** Hmmmmm, it seems we'll have to go to the next stage of therapy.

*The Denizens briefly go into a huddle, and there are some rounds of rock-paper-scissors*

**Darla M:** To the custard tub, ladies!

*Some of the Denizens grab Dean and hustle him out to the van.*

**Crowley:** Oi! Why are you sitting on me? This is most uncomfortable madam.

**GoForTehGig:** It's so you don't escape while you wait your turn in the custard tub.

**Lampito: **Would you like some more popcorn, Mr Singer... Mr Singer? Mr Singer?

_In the kitchen, under the table_

**Bobby:** Could you leave that HELL-TV hooked up before you go? It's better than _Extreme Couponing_. Or _Swamp People._

**TheBlueOrleans:** Sure. But be warned, if you happen to land on _Hell's Got Talent_ while you're channel surfing, walk away. Did I tell you we're probably going to upgrade to a bus?

**FIN**


End file.
